


The Garden of Blood

by LoverGurrl411



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellarke, Bromance, F/M, Friendship, Love/Hate, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously slow-burn, Slow Burn, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoverGurrl411/pseuds/LoverGurrl411
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Bellamy had believed Murphy when he said he didn't kill Wells? How much would change or stay the same with that one moment? **Slow-burn Bellarke**</p>
<p>"We, we who were, we are the same no longer" -- Pablo Neruda, The Saddest Poem.<br/>(the one where there's a ridiculous amount of sexual tension between them, and Bellamy and Clarke realize that they're in this together, for better or worse, and they're kind of okay with that).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Every Story Has Its Scars

**Author's Note:**

> So, I recently discovered Ao3, to my immense pleasure. The amount of bellarke stories on here warms my soul, and so here goes my hand at Bellarke, and uploading this story here. This is written all the way up to chapter 5. I should be updating every few days, until it hits chapter 5, and after that I'll likely only update once a month--or once a week, honestly depending on my muse. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope everyone enjoys!

_/I’m just a step away, I’m just a breath away, losin’ my faith today (Fallin’ off the edge today)_

_I am just a man, not superhuman (I’m not superhuman)_

_Someone save me from the hate._

_It’s just another war, just another family torn (falling from my faith today)_

_Just a step from the edge, just another day in the world we live._

_I need a hero to save me now…a hero will save me (just in time)_

_\--_ Hero, Skillet

 

Don’t overreact. Don’t overreact. But dammit, he wants to. Bellamy wants to shake Clarke until her head rattles and her teeth smash together and sees finally, _finally_ sees reason. But he doesn’t.

He watches as she goes outside the tent and confronts Murphy in front of the hundred. The hundred that are left. Murphy glances at him, denial on his lips. Hope in his eyes.

Bellamy wishes he could look away, but he has to be strong. He has to be _worse_ so he can be the leader they _need_. What a load of shit, he tries to tell himself but he can’t deny the proof in Clarke’s hands.

And like a volcano erupting, Murphy’s on the ground. Murphy’s bleeding, and his blood drips all over the floor. Pain is messy. It’s so fucking messy, and Bellamy can’t move. In a blink they’ve all moved deeper into the woods.

“You can stop this!” Clarke yells at him, but she’s pleading with her eyes as they string him up. Everything’s happening so fast. Too fast. Faster than either of them can think. “They’ll listen to you!”

“This is on you, Princess!” Bellamy can’t help but yell back, anger lacing his words. This is all _her_ fault. If she would have simply _listened_ everyone would still be building the wall.

There’s so much blood on Murphy’s face that he’s barely recognizable. But the hope in his eyes still shine bright. There’s so much damn hope that his leader will save him. Hope that his leader won’t abandon him. Hope that his blind faith in Bellamy is substantiated by this moment and he won’t forsake him.

But can Bellamy be that type of leader? Can he stand between Murphy and an angry crowd? Is he willing to stand up for someone who isn’t his sister or his responsibility? But he made them his responsibility when he silently took charge, didn’t he?

The blood drips onto the ground in little _pit pat_ s that no one hears. The crowd chanting Bellamy’s name is too loud, too boisterous, too overwhelming. Yet, in those _pits_ and _pats_ of Murphy’s blood there’s a salvation. There’s a hope inside of himself that tells Bellamy that he can be that type of leader if only he would try.

He feels his body move before he can register and suddenly he’s in front of Murphy’s body, the same body that’s barely hanging on. Murphy’s trying to yell and plead at him that _he didn’t do this_ , but it’s muffled by the gag. Bellamy understands anyway. Bellamy _hears_ him and nods. He nods so slightly that only Clarke and Murphy notice and the relief in Murphy’s eyes is so intense that Bellamy looks away as he cuts him down in one swift motion with the ax in his hands.

Silence.

“You’re all my people,” Bellamy looks around at the crowd. He doesn’t need to yell. They all hear him as though he were shouting at the top of his lungs. “ _My people_ , and I’ll need a helluva lot more than a bloody knife with initials to willingly hang any of you.”

His words are simple, but passionate. More passionate than anything any of them had heard him say yet. All the speeches he’d given up until now had been riddled with self-importance. A sense of empowerment through _his_ elevation. But not this. Not this. Not now, when the life of one of their own is at stake. And it matters.

There’s approval in his sister’s eyes, but he can’t stand it. He let Murphy be hung, even if he did cut him down. He could have easily decided to kick the stand away instead of cutting the rope. He could have easily been a _monster_. Heck, maybe he still is one.

But his eyes land on Charlotte. Her frail young face filled with tear tracks. Her haunted eyes, filled with guilt, and Bellamy _knows_. She goes to speak, to make public her shame, but Bellamy can’t let her. He shakes his head ‘no’ at her, but she speaks anyway. She speaks because she’s too young to understand the subtle nuances of looks and slight shakes of head like the one Bellamy just gave her. She _speaks_ and her words cut something inside of him.

 _No. Not her. Not innocent Charlotte_ _with so many demons_.

But the words are out there. The tension is in the air. Bellamy can feel the anger rising in the silence trying to battle the confusion.  

He moves like a panther, he’s so swift, as he comes upon her, and silently drags Charlotte away before anyone can move. Finn, Clarke, and surprisingly Murphy aren’t far behind him. Everyone else follows, slightly confused and wary, to wait outside of Bellamy’s tent.

Time is moving too fast. He can’t stop it and he can’t stop the words that are out of his mouth once he’s inside of the tent, away from prying ears. “ _Why_ Charlotte?”

“I was just trying to slay my demons just like you told me,” Charlotte responds, a cry for help not far from her lips.

 _Slay my demons_. _Slay my demons. Slay my demons._ Bellamy feels like his chest is caving in on him. There’s a pressure that tries to crush him—the same pressure he felt the moment he shot Jaha. _This is all my fault_.

“What the hell is she talking about?” Clarke glares at him, but he sees past that. He sees the anger she has at herself. She accused the wrong person. She could have gotten the wrong person killed. But _this is still my fault._

“She misunderstood me,” Bellamy tries to explain himself. He hopes she understands. He hopes, and there’s a desperation to his hand movement and eyes that speaks volumes. “Charlotte, that’s not what I meant.”

Murphy doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. _Slay my demons._ That was Charlotte’s reason, and he can’t even blame her. It seems as good a reason as any to kill another human being. Heck, it’s probably a better reason than most have. Better than power, or money, or love. _Slay my demons_. Wells represented everything that haunted her. Wells represented everything that haunted every one of the one hundred. He represented his father.

“Bring the girl out now, Bellamy!” someone roars in rage. But they’re not angry at Charlotte for killing Wells. Not really. They’re just angry, and Charlotte’s an easy target. Murphy gets that. He understands more than he would ever care to admit.

That could have been him. If Bellamy hadn’t saved him…if he had been disillusioned of his leader…that voice yelling to be heard and witnessed and valued full of fury could have been him.

“We can’t let them have her,” Murphy’s voice is raspy but strong. The blood on his face makes him look like a monster. He feels like a monster. He feels hopeless, but he can do something about that. He can make sure that the rage inside of the mob won’t get Charlotte. He can try.

“If any of you have any bright ideas, now’s the time,” Bellamy inquires in frustration.

They don’t say anything. They can’t say anything. So they look away, unable to bear the burden of looking Bellamy in the eye after causing this. _If they’d listened to him then everyone would still be building the wall._ Murphy understands their shame, too, but they’re not a little girl. He can’t find it in himself to empathize with their plight.

Charlotte pleads for Bellamy to not let them hurt her. She pleads and begs, and it rips at Clarke. It rips at her, though she can’t help it because she’s silently pleading for him to fix this, too. She defied him, so sure that she was in the right and that _the people have a right to know_. But this wasn’t the ark. Their people weren’t stable. Their people didn’t function like the ark the same way Bellamy and her didn’t function like the council. _I should have known better_.

Shame tries to eat at her as Bellamy bends at the knees and looks Charlotte in the eyes and reassures her. He reassures her that _everything is gonna be okay_ , but Clarke isn’t so sure. Not anymore. Not after she had seen what the worst of them were capable of. Not after she realized how little she could trust her own judgement.

But Bellamy doesn’t hesitate. He sends Charlotte with Clarke and Finn, to run. To run and never stop running until he finds a way to save her. He doesn’t say it, but as he looks at Clarke, she sees the promise in his eyes. He sees the fear in her. They never stop to contemplate if Charlotte has it in her to run forever. They never stop to contemplate if Clarke has it in her to shelter Wells’ killer.

Murphy stays behind with Bellamy, ready to back his leader. Ready to back the man who cut him down. Ready to swear to _never let him down_ , but nothing ever goes as planned. Bellamy in true Bellamy-fashion doesn’t discuss his game plan—not quite sure if he even has one, himself— and instead comes out of the tent with sharp words on his tongue.

“Where is she, Bellamy?” the one with the rage asks. Murphy can’t remember for the life of him his name, and it doesn’t matter. Not really. Not when he’s asking for a little girls head. Not when he could be Murphy _so easily_. He’s the mirror-Murphy, and something claws at Murphy’s chest to realize it.

“Dial it down, and back up,” Bellamy commands. Without meaning to the one who isn’t Murphy, but _is_ , does as told.

Bellamy senses the difference, but it doesn’t last. Nothing ever lasts on the ground. Before Murphy can react, the Mirror-Murphy is demanding justice, and spewing about the _princess_ wanting rules and trying to build a society, and it’s all too much. It’s all too much and Mirror-Murphy attacks Bellamy with a wooden club. It’s all too much and Murphy swings his ax without thinking. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted to tell the Mirror-Murphy that Bellamy will fix this. That Bellamy can fix anything.

But there’s so much blood. There’s so much silence. There’s so many stares. He looks to Bellamy, wondering if _now_ he will be hung. He’s so sure that Bellamy can’t fix this; he can’t rescue him from something he _did_ do.

 _Pit. Pat._ The Mirror-Murphy’s blood spills on the ground. Bellamy can’t look away, until his sister whispers his name. It reminds him of when she was a little girl hiding under the floor board, scared of the dark. _Screw you, I’m not afraid._ So he looks up into the sea of teenagers, some barely twelve and thirteen. He sees their eyes filled with fear and he understands that if they don’t replace their fear with courage and strength, they’re never going to survive.

But he’s not afraid. He’s not afraid, and he hopes that they can feed from his strength. He looks to Murphy, and there’s a resignation in his eyes that he refuses to accept. _No. Because Murphy’s his people, too_.

Miller stands, hands at his side, beanie hat in place, heart beating a mile a minute. He feels the crowd, he is a part of the crowd, and they all feel the same way—conflicted. That boy, that boy that now lays dead, he had a name. He probably had a family on the Ark and a girl or maybe a boy that he liked. That boy had a _life_ but his rage had overtaken him and he had asked for a little girl’s head.

Miller wants to feel bad for him, but Murphy might have just saved Charlotte’s life. Murphy might have just saved Bellamy’s life. If Murphy can find it in him to protect the _reason_ why he was almost killed, then how could he judge the ax that fell from his hands?

Miller doesn’t think he can, and no one else seems to think so either because no one comes to the dead boy’s defense. No one speaks, waiting to take their cue from their leader. But all Bellamy does is clap Murphy’s shoulder once and look at the crowd with eyes a thousand years old…but fearless.  

Miller sees what they all see—acceptance that sometimes the _monstrous_ decision is the _right_ choice. A few people in the crowd move forward to grab the body, other’s to build a pyre.

“We need to find Charlotte and Clarke. I sent them away,” Bellamy says gruffly, his voice tangled with emotions. Miller nods, along with so many others, but no one speaks because they’re tangled with emotions, too.

“Took you long enough, earlier, but…thanks,” Murphy says in that snarky way of his. Snark masks the self-loathing and pain.

“Yea, well, you needed to learn a lesson,” Bellamy lies while telling the truth simultaneously. “Being a jackass, pissing on people— _yea, I saw that_ —isn’t gaining you any favors around here.”

“I’m an ass. It’s who I am,” Murphy looks away, a little lost and a little stubborn. Bellamy sees him clearly, and understands in a way that he wishes he didn’t.

“You don’t have to change who you are, but _something’s gotta give_.” Bellamy claps him on the back in comfort and brotherhood, and _something more_ that neither can define…but it helps them walk on.   

They search, all the hundred left, yelling out Charlotte’s name. But Clarke, Finn, and Charlotte don’t know that it’s safe. They don’t know that the situation has been fixed with blood and life. And so they try to outrun them. But Clarke can’t bear to touch Charlotte’s hand. She can’t bear to look Charlotte in the eye knowing that she is a killer. A _murderer_. Innocent, little Charlotte. Tears fall from Charlotte’s eyes in shame and despair, but Clarke can’t find it in her to comfort her. Charlotte doesn’t blame her.

Finally, _finally_ they hear Bellamy’s voice among the crowd. They stop. Hope springs in their chest. Charlotte _knew_ Bellamy would fix everything. She _knew it_ , and her faith in him is like the brightest star in the sky.  

“What happened?” Clarke asks without preamble. Her hands shake but she focuses on Bellamy. His eyes. The blood splatter on his face and neck that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s safe now,” Bellamy says, but a small crowd forms behind him and distracts his gaze.

“What _happened?_ ” Clarke pushes. She _always_ pushes, and Bellamy hates and respects her for it.

“The kid’s dead,” Bellamy looks at little Charlotte with tears in her eyes. “It’s _safe_.”

Charlotte wants to rage and yell that she didn’t want people dying over her. She had only wanted to slay her demons. She had only wanted to stop the nightmare. The endless nightmare. The endless cycle of death and hauntings. But her words aren’t fast enough, and Clarke lashes out at the boy-man she sees as a demon. The boy-man who Clarke had been so sure would fix everything, even though she would never admit it. But this hadn’t been what Clarke wanted. Not this way.

“We don’t decide who lives and dies! Not down here!”

Her words pierce Bellamy deeply, and his breath slows. The world sets into slow motion for a second, and for that moment he despises her. He despises her because she stands righteous on a pedestal, screaming for action but then judging the only action available. Murphy hadn’t had a choice.

Maybe Charlotte hadn’t had a choice either. _Slay your demons_. And she had. She had slain her demons, and _survived_ , and damn it all to hell if he isn’t proud of her in some twisted way.

“You weren’t there, Princess. You don’t get to judge!” Bellamy reacts, no one noticing that he missed a beat. Finn backs Clarke up, the moral high ground his permanent resting place. People yell in the background, defending their leader, defending their own inaction. 

“I know that this isn’t who we are! This isn’t what we _do_. We _need rules_! We can’t just kill each other. We can’t just live by _whatever the hell we want_.”

“Stop!” Charlotte screams and suddenly Bellamy realizes that they’re all too close to the edge. “Just stop fighting! I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry that I killed Wells, and I’m sorry that someone else died because of me…I don’t want anyone else dying because of me.”

The silence is too heavy. His body is too slow. Bellamy and Clarke lock eyes; they understand the intent before their brains can consciously comprehend, their bodies react, hands outstretched, the word “no!” on their lips.

But it’s too late. Charlotte’s body is weightless like innocence and joy and everything good in the world before it crumbles. Charlotte’s body falls like rain from the sky, and _they can’t breathe_. _They feel this pain like ten thousand volts of lightning_ , and there’s so much to say but no one says anything at all.

Grief is heavy, too, like silence, and grips too tight. Everyone stands, unsure what to do. They wait. They wait for Bellamy, the rebel leader. They wait for Clarke, the beacon of reason. They wait for the loudest voices in the hundred to _say something_.

But Bellamy knows if he speaks first he’ll blame her. He’ll rage like the largest storm. But this is on both of them. They weren’t fast enough, or sure enough. They weren’t _good enough_.

Maybe if the mirror-Murphy hadn’t died, then Bellamy could have blamed him. Bellamy would have beat him into the ground with the sheer force of his anger, and then _done something_ to appease his conscious. But there is no one left to blame. Just himself. Just Clarke. Just them, and their grieving souls.

One look into Clarke’s eyes, and Bellamy knows he doesn’t have the will to break her down even further. Two souls lost tonight is enough.

“We need rules,” Clarke whispers hollowly, as if the reason and logic behind those words are the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he responds bitterly, a sure bite attached. His rage runs too deep. His apathy towards her have reached new heights. A little girl is dead and Clarke wants to discuss rules and leadership. He shakes his head, understanding comes to him unbidden; rules _are_ her escape. It’s the only way she feels she can fix this horrible situation. “And who makes those rules, huh? You?”

“For now, _we_ do,” she doesn’t break eye contact. Neither does he. But the shuffle of feet behind them remind them that others are waiting for his cue. They’re waiting for their leader to tell them _how to deal with tragedy_.

He doesn’t have an answer for them. He can barely deal with the tragedy in his own heart. So, instead of answers he offers them reprieve. “Get back to camp, and get some rest. We’ll search for her body tomorrow at daybreak.”

No one works on the wall that night. They’re defenseless, but they’ll be free of the horror facing them worse than any obstacle on Earth yet: the realization that they all had a hand in an innocent girl’s death…an innocent girl that wasn’t so innocent…and the fact that no one is quite sure whether or not that makes them all a little bit of a monster.    


	2. Cry Your Name

/ _Come on skinny Love, pour a little salt_

_We were never here…staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer/_

\--Brooke Aidee, Skinny Love

 

There is a pain in his chest; it pulls and pulls and _aches_. He wants to scream and kick and _kill_ , but death is why he hurts so bad…so he hunts. Bellamy rises with the sun every morning, and comes back with blood on his hands by the time everyone is up and about, attending to their duties.

Clarke watches him with eyes that understand his pain. She feels the guilt, and it nips at her heels like hounds attacking sent from the devil. She rises with the sun, watches him leave, and goes to wash her hands in a communal basin filled with water for everyone. The water is murky, but it’s better than nothing. She stands there, hands underwater, for minutes on end, waiting for the blood she feels on her hands to finally, _finally_ wash away. _If only she had stayed silent like Bellamy had said…If only she had been quicker…If only…_

“How long are you going to torture yourself?” Finn asks Clarke from behind. Few are awake at this hour, and his presence surprises her. She whips around, startled, eyes wide still haunted with the ghosts of the night.

“You’re awake early,” Clarke dodges his question and shakes her hands, air drying them. The effort to find a dry piece of cloth is too much at this hour.

“How long Clarke?” Finn pushes. That’s what _he_ does; Bellamy _pushes_ until people either bend or break. The resemblance to Bellamy is too much, too soon, and Clarke glares at Finn, but he doesn’t back down.

“What do you want from me, Finn?” Clarke asks him, angry that the little peace she had is gone. In its place is a scalding fire of guilt, remorse, and shame that eats at her. She hates Finn just a bit for ruining the solitude that allowed her to wallow.

Clarke allows the hate to simmer and boil; it’s better than the fire. It’s better than hating herself.

“I want you to _stop_ ,” he says, eyes strong and intent upon her. She’s his light in this forever-darkness of Earth, and he’ll be damned if she dims. Not here. Not now. Not _ever_. “Everyone _needs_ you and Bellamy to _just stop_ this pity party. You’re like the walking dead, and I can’t stand it.”

“I’m _sorry_ , Finn,” Clarke practically snarls. “I’m sorry that I don’t just _get over_ a little girl’s death. Charlotte was _one_ _of us_! It was _two_ days ago, for god sakes!”

“I get that, Clarke,” Finn says compassionately, but his compassion simply stifles her. She doesn’t want him to be compassionate or understanding. She wants him to hate her, the way she’s so sure Bellamy hates her. “I do, but we’re not on the ark. You, _we_ , can’t afford for you and Bellamy to check out for a couple of days. I know it’s hard…Charlotte _was_ one of us, but she’s gone now. There’s nothing that anyone can do about that, but _you_ are still here, so _be_ here.”

It was the only words he had to offer her, so he gives them to her like love on the wings of angels…softly, wholly, with the point and not the edge.

But he can’t give Clarke salvation…not him. He’s not the one that blames her, she knows. So Clarke turns her back, walks away, past Jasper and Sterling who are at guard post on the wall. She walks into the woods, onto the path she sees Bellamy walk every morning.

She walks for a few minutes, the sun completely out of hiding, and takes in the massiveness of the trees, the greenness of the Earth around her, the darkness of the shadows in contrast to the brightness peaking through the trees.

Bellamy, on his way back from the hunt sees Clarke from afar walking towards him. For a moment he freezes, thinking that another catastrophe has struck. Fear grips him that someone else’s death will be at his hands because he was gone, _hunting_ , and not even a damn animal at his feet to show for it.

But there’s no urgency in her step, no fear in her stance…only pain…and he knows that she’s trying to run away the way he runs.

He _knows_ , and the knowing grips him like a long lost friend.

“You should get back behind the wall, Princess,” Bellamy says, an edge to his words. _This_ was what she’d been looking for—the hate, the fire that speaks of unresolved anger.

_This_ is better than any compassionate word Finn could ever give. His compassion only opens wounds; Bellamy’s antagonism and resentment cauterizes it.

“I don’t take orders from _you_ ,” Clarke barks, but the fight leaves her suddenly. She wishes she hadn’t left the camp…the camp where there was a basin so she could wash her hands as many times a day as she needs to…like she needs to right now.

Breathe. Relax. Breathe.

But her breath isn’t the problem, it’s the air. The poisoned air that she inhales has transformed her into a person she doesn’t truly know.

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy reacts the only way it’s in his nature to: he grabs hold of her shoulders and shakes her lightly.

“Nothing, _nothing_ ,” Clarke tries to shake him off, but there’s a hysterical note to her voice. It’s just a twinge, but he hears it. He hears everything.

He’s a hunter; it’s in his nature to notice all weaknesses in his enemies, his allies, his friends, and his family. _No one escapes_.

“It’s not _nothing_ ,” Bellamy lets her go, but doesn’t move an inch. He’s in her space. She’s in his space. _They_ , _they who were, they are the same no longer_. “I-I _know_ that you didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did. I get that, Clarke, we all do. But that doesn’t change the way things turned out.”

“How do you live with it,” Clarke admits and questions. “The bad decisions that turn out with someone _dying_? Because any way you slice it, it’s still _my fault she’s dead._ ”

The pain in Clarke’s voice tears at Bellamy, but they’re not friends. They’re barely allies, so he has no room to comfort her, but he feels an ache that wants to reach out to her. It’s only been a week since they landed, but her pain has become his pain because _they are each other’s people_.

The hunter in him that’s ruthless is also a protector, and he _sees_. They need to get past this. They can’t survive this way. But he can’t protect her from herself, and there’s a sliver of hate which eats at him—hate towards her and towards himself.

“Her death is on both of us, Clarke.”

That’s all he has to offer her. That’s all the comfort he has to give because the fire burns him too deep.

Breathe. Focus. _Never give up_ , and so he invades her space even further. Their noses brush against each other. Their eyes lock in a battle of wills. The air around them is heavy with the horror of their decisions.

“How do we fix it?” she pleads. She doesn’t know what else to do—he’s in her space and she refuses to move. To move is to acknowledge that she’s weak, and she’d rather be guilty than weak.

“We focus on our people and our enemy,” Bellamy whispers. His answer is so sure that she nods, accepting his words as gospel.

Bellamy nods in return and sidesteps around her and continues on to camp. Home. Clarke trails behind him, and so she never sees the doubt in his eyes. But the fire consumes his doubt before they make it past the gate.

The changed air follows them. _They_. _Together. Guilty. But maybe not forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo? What do you guys think? I know it’s a bit short, but it didn’t feel right to connect this chapter with the next. I was a little worried about Clarke being too emotional, but she always seems to strike me as extreme in her emotions, and I did want them to grow from their grief. Did I succeed or fail miserably?


	3. The Choices We Live With

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been eating at me silently. I’m not sure how I feel about the ending (I’ve read it a gazillion times)—sometimes I love it, and sometimes I don’t. Anywho, I hope everyone enjoys!

_/Take me to church; I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of you lies_

_I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death, Good God,_

_let me give you my life/_

\--Take Me to Church, Hozier

Chapter 3 – The Choices We Live With

Bellamy feels the breeze against his skin. The sun is just starting to peek through the clouds and warm his skin. He knows that it’s going to be a warm one—the weather on Earth is one of the most unpredictable things of the planet…it’s also the thing that he likes the most about the ground. The unpredictable nature reminds him of himself.

He recognizes how unpredictable he is. How reckless. How thoughtless. It’s why he’s in front of some random girl’s small drop-ship. This girl, whoever she is, launched herself through space, probably for a loved one. But he can’t distract himself with these thoughts. He’s there for a reason. He needs that radio.

But she moans in pain and discomfort. He’s running out of time. _Do something. Do something._ Breathe. Relax. Make the _right_ choice. But the sun is getting higher and higher and he can’t move closer. He knows the radio in the space ship can either be his death sentence, or hope for the hundred. He remembers the look in Octavia’s eyes when he cut Murphy down—the pride. He also feels what’s at stake for himself acutely.

_Decide, decide._ His heart thrums to the beat of that song, desperate.

Her eyes open, blink, and take him in. Times up. 

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me?” her voice snaps him out of his haze. He wants to knock her out and take the radio and run…never stop running, but _screw you, I’m not afraid_ and he won’t act like he’s afraid, so he goes up to her, and helps her out of the ship.

“Thanks,” she holds out her hand. “I’m Raven.”

“Bellamy.” He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want her to know him. Run. Run. Never stop running.

“Bellamy?” she says his name softly, confusion lacing her tone until realization dawns on her face. He doesn’t care what she has to say. “You’re the one they’re looking for. You shot Jaha!”

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. _Run._ No, he won’t run because he’s _not afraid._ But his insides quake, and his hands itch for his weapon. He’d rather launch himself at a threat than stand there waiting patiently.

“Guess I’m famous,” he pierces her with the thousand mile stare that’s intrinsically _him_.

Raven knows that she should feel fear. Standing in front of her is a would-be murderer. But he isn’t running, or hurting her. He hasn’t threatened her at all. And yet, there is something off-setting about his presence. Heat rolls off his body, and he’s too close, invading her space like he owns all the space in the entire universe.

He has an air of authority, as well, which irks her because if there’s one thing she can’t stand is a guy on a power trip—raised on the ark Raven’s learned how to accept it, but she never learned how to let it go.

She’s not sure what to do, and an uncomfortable silence settles in. She doesn’t want to antagonize him in case he’s a raving lunatic, but the silence grates and grates until finally she explodes and says, “they’re gonna kill three hundred people.”

That hadn’t been what she wanted to say, but the words are out into the air. The stifling air that consumes them. There’s a panic in his eyes, and a pain that stops Raven from saying anything else.

“ _Why_?” he asks, and there’s so much asked in that question that Raven can’t hear or understand. Bellamy’s heart is strangling him. He can’t breathe, but he does. He can’t run, but he’s already running inside.

“The ark is dying. It’s why they sent the hundred to the ground, to see if it’s survivable,” Raven doesn’t take her eyes off him. She wants to see what he’s made of. “When the signals were going dead, they assumed everyone was dying here. It’s why I came down. For Finn, and to let the ark know that it’s safe to come down. That they don’t have to kill three hundred people for more air.”

It’s too much. He had known once Clarke told everyone, but he hadn’t _known known._ It had never occurred to him, when he had been pressuring everyone to remove their bracelets, what might happen past the Arkers not coming down. Three hundred people are going to die, and that would be on his conscience. On his very soul. Bellamy isn’t sure he can live with that, but he doesn’t want to live imprisoned either, and the council would surely imprison him when they got on the ground for what he’s done.

Raven turns, unsure if she understands Bellamy Blake any more than when she first said his name. But when she goes to pick up the radio, Bellamy is upon her, snatching her hand in the air.

Her knife is out and against his throat, and she realizes that she had been waiting unconsciously for him to attack ever since she learned his name. He realizes it, too, but he can’t find it in him to care. Not here. Not now when this moment can decide so much for him.

Their eyes lock. The wind picks up slightly. They should say something, but Bellamy can’t find it in himself to plead and Raven doesn’t know what to say besides the obvious to _let her the hell go_.

“Take the radio with you. Just wait until we’re back at camp.”

It’s the most he’s willing to say, and Raven can see that. It’s the most she would be willing to say, too, and suddenly she understands what she had been looking for before; she can see that he has the same heart as her. They’re both warriors. Fierce. Immovable like a damn mountain, and that knowledge sparks an unfounded trust inside of her that she knows she shouldn’t have…but she does.

He sees the acquiescence in her eyes, and lets her hand go. But he holds onto the newfound understanding in her eyes, because whether Raven knows it or not, _she’s his people, too, now_.

**

Clarke doesn’t know what do as she watches Raven run into Finn’s arms. _Her Finn_ , or at least she thought they were each other’s. She’s not so sure, now, but she can’t deal with it. She can’t accept that the words he had whispered last night as he had taken her gently had been lies. She can’t accept that everything she and Finn had shared might have been a place-holder until he saw Raven again…and so she doesn’t deal with it.

She focuses on Bellamy. His frowning lips. His pained and guarded eyes. His rough hands as they grip her upper arm, and steer her aside to tell her that _they’ve got to talk_.

And they do talk. Raven and Finn follow inside the same tent that they had all been in just the other day, arguing over Murphy, and then arguing over Charlotte.

Bellamy and Clarke share in the memory for a moment; _we focus on our people and our enemy_ , and so they let the memory slip away as though it never existed.

Murphy and Miller come in behind Finn and Raven, beckoned by Bellamy when he had been walking in. Monty and Octavia come in after them, unsure what awaits them. Nothing ever good seems to when people walk into this tent in groups.

No one talks, waiting for Bellamy to begin, but his throat closes and he’s stuck in limbo—wanting to share and be set free through the truth, but reveling in his secrets, allowing the guilt that had started with Jaha’s death to eat him slowly.

Bellamy opens his mouth anyway, and speaks through it all. He speaks and tells the truth in his simplicity; he killed Jaha to get on the dropship, the ark is dying which everyone already knows, and three hundred people are going to die if Raven doesn’t use that radio to contact that Ark to let them know that ground is survivable.

The moment the words are out of his mouth Clarke attacks with sharp words and criticism. Murphy defends Bellamy, so sure that Bellamy can’t do wrong. So sure that Bellamy is always right.

Octavia looks at him with horrified eyes— _she never asked him to do that for her_. Finn and the others stay quiet, letting the drama unfold truly before putting their two cents in.

But Bellamy can’t stand their stares, or Octavia’s silence, or Clarke’s judgement. He’d rather throw himself to the grounders than let her judge him. He’d rather be guilty a thousand times over, than let her think that she has a right to judge him. 

“Wait—Jaha isn’t dead,” Raven cuts in. Silence. Realization. It’s heavy because no one knows what to say to so much information. Proof that their fearless leader isn’t infallible. Or perhaps it’s proof that their fearless leader is indeed fearless, ruthless, and compassionate. Raven misunderstands the silence because she might be their people now, but she’s new. She doesn’t understand the dynamics and relationships—heck, most of the hundred don’t understand it well, themselves. “Guess you’re a crappy shot.”

“Bellamy’s a _great_ shot,” Clarke doesn’t stop looking at Bellamy, though she’s talking to Raven.

“I’ve seen him shoot deer from yards away, let alone a guy standing a few feet away from him,” Miller explains to Raven. “He almost never misses.”

Everyone knows the implications of it, but no one quite knows what to do with it.

Finn, without thought moves his hand over Raven’s lower back. Clarke sees the movement from the corner of her eye, but can’t focus on that. She can’t. She can’t. Not when Bellamy thinks he’s guilty. Not when she owes him for helping to make her strong, whether he knows it or not…whether she’ll ever admit it or not.

So Clarke invades Bellamy’s space, much like he has a habit of doing. She invades his space until their chests are brushing lightly against each other, and their noses bump a bit as she tilts her head up to look at him squarely.

“You protect your sister, you protect _us_ ,” Clarke says simply, remembering how he cut the noose from around Murphy’s neck swiftly. She doesn’t shout or whisper. She doesn’t lay her hand on his arm. Only eyes to eyes. Her mouth to God’s ears, and Bellamy can feel something inside of him strengthen and stir. “ _That’s_ who you are. _That’s_ what you do. You’re not a killer, Bellmay. You’re a protector.”

Bellamy wants to crush her, and kneel in front of her simultaneously until her words become gospel, but he can’t do either because there are too many eyes, and not enough honesty or time between them. Because deep inside of himself he wishes to let those three hundred lives burn in space to save his own life. Deep inside of himself, he still despises her more than he can stand her.

“Uhh, so what are we waiting for?” Monty asks awkwardly.

“Yea, why haven’t you radio’d in yet to let them know it’s safe to come down?” Finn sets his accusing stare on Raven. Before she can raise her hand and shout that _it sure as hell hadn’t been her idea_ , Bellamy answers for her.

“They’ll kill me the second they come down, at best,” his eyes don’t look at anyone but Clarke. He wants to but he can’t, because she had been offering him some type of salvation. Maybe she can offer it, still. _They make the rules_. “At worst, they’ll imprison me until I die of old age.”

“Figures you’d be worried about your own skin when there are hundreds of lives at stake!” Finn lashes out. “Those aren’t the privileged that’ll be sacrificed. Those are our people. _Your people_.”

He mocks Bellamy cruelly by throwing his own words back at him. Finn doesn’t know how deep he cuts. He can’t know, and Bellamy doesn’t look his way so that he can see the self-loathing in his deep set eyes.

“We’ll figure something out,” Clarke promises, but promises run away with the wind on Earth. Easily broken.

“I can’t believe you’re even entertaining this, Clarke!” Finn cries out, enraged and furious for the obvious reason and a thousand little unknown reasons, too. “These are people’s lives we’re talking about. This shouldn’t be a discussion. Make the call, Raven!”

Clarke agrees wholeheartedly with Finn, but her hand still moves and stops Raven from turning to the radio. Calling the Ark is the _right_ choice, but this isn’t about right or wrong. Not right now. Not on the ground. Charlotte’s death, Wells death…they prove this. This is about them. Who they are. Who they are to each other, and whether she liked it or not, _Bellamy is her people_.

And down here on the ground…on the ground that has to come first. That has to matter more.

On that cliff, losing Charlotte, something had snapped between them…on that walk, sharing their grief with each other the only way they had known how, something had been reborn from the ashes of that break.

That _something_ stops her now from simply making the _right_ choice. Taking the decision out of his hands would be too much like betrayal. She doesn’t want to betray him. She doesn’t want to betray herself, either.

“We’ll figure something out,” Clarke repeats desperately, wanting him to understand how fervently she means those words. _Believe. Believe._ She’s screaming the word in her mind so loud in the hopes that he can hear her despite the overwhelming silence.

He doesn’t. Not really. Not when he can feel the judgement rolling off of the others in waves. But what he doesn’t see is Murphy’s undying loyalty to him. He doesn’t see Miller’s undying faith in him. He doesn’t see Clarke’s hope in him that shines brighter than the North Star. He doesn’t see, and so he turns his back on all of them and faces the slight opening of the tent.

Light shines through the cracks. A breeze wafts in. _Say no. Say no._ But he can’t breathe again. He can’t run, either, and the walls seem to move in around him—those flappable walls that shake with harsh gusts of wind.

“Make the call,” he chokes out in a gruff voice, never having felt more defeated than he does at this moment.

Raven quickly turns to the radio, but no one else moves as she contacts the ark. It takes a few minutes, but the voice that comes from the ark crackles a fire in Bellamy, and fury sweeps him into its own storm. It’s Abby on the other line, but she could have been Jaha himself for all that the “ _who”_ matters. _He hates the ark. He hates everything about them. He hates that he comes from them!_

But his hate doesn’t matter because it battles against the grief as the worst scenario comes to life; Abby whispers brokenly, “you’re too late. It’s already done.”

Bellamy steps outside, in disbelief. Everyone else files out behind him and together they turn their heads up to the heavens. The sky is lit up by streaks against the waning afternoon light.

“Cowards!” Bellamy whispers harshly to no one and everyone. “They couldn’t have fucking waited a couple more hours!”

“This is all your fault!” Raven goes to attack him, but is held back by Finn.

Octavia voices her agreement quietly, but none of it matters. Not right now. Not when the underlying truth is so much worse—Bellamy hadn’t forced anyone to wait for him to give in and assent. They had, with their silence, chosen to think of his life first before those three hundred lives on the ark.

This is all of their faults. _Together_.

Bellamy looks at Clarke and sees the shame in her eyes. He wants to ask why she should feel shame—sadness, yes; horror, yes; pain and guilt, yes, yes, but why shame? But he doesn’t have to because he sees it in the tears that collect in her eyes…

He turns and sees the same shame on everyone’s face except for Finn who only seems to burn more deeply as the seconds pass, and Murphy who hasn’t every _truly_ felt shame or understood it because he _always means what he says and does, regardless of how horrible_.

He knows it’s not enough, that it’ll never be enough, but he says so anyway: “Thank you.”

The thank you will never cover the shame, but it might make it easier to bear because he understands their shame because he had felt it too, over Jaha; that shame that builds and punches and scrapes at the heart and stomach when least expected…over the fact that even though he felt horrible for what he had done…he would do it again, if it ever comes down to it… _they would do it again_.

They’d always choose his life, their people, over any other.


	4. The Wonders of the Guilty and the Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frustratingly enough, I was in the middle of writing this chapter when I went to save it and Word Document froze on me, and then DIDN'T recover the file. So what you are about to read literally comes from my sweat and tears after the fact when I realized I had to somehow re-create everything from scratch. My writing feels a bit off for me at some points, but I just couldn't edit this one more time. I hope everyone enjoys!

_/Love sinks and Hope floats/_

-River of Tears, Alessia Cara

 

Sweat. Blood. They mix as they fall to the floor.

Sweat and blood—Bellamy can't hear Octavia's yell to  _stop_  or Clarke's desperate pleas for the Grounder to  _just say what the antidote to the poison is_. He can't hear any of it—not Miller trying to hold Octavia back or Raven's panic as she bursts in and claims that  _Finn's heart stopped before it started again_.

He can't hear any of it because the Grounder's breath is too heavy in his ear. The sound of pain is deafening. Too loud. Too hurtful.  _Too much_.

The rage inside of him chokes and strangles Bellamy.  _This savage_  abducted his sister.  _This savage_  poisoned Finn.  _This savage_  has been killing off his people!

The makeshift whip, made of tied seatbelts, fall from his hands like redemption and condemnation.

" _Please_ , we don't have to do this!" Clarke begs, but the grounder isn't moved. Bellamy isn't either. Bellamy's eyes lock with the Grounder, and Bellamy understands that nothing they could say could ever move the Grounder to help them. Brothers in enemy corners because Bellamy and the Grounder were cut from the same cloth. It's the eternal heat of rage and indignity that drives them both.

"Clarke," Bellamy whispers gruffly. He doesn't know what he wants, but he knows it's something from her. Maybe acceptance of his actions. Maybe a way to stop himself from doing what he's about to do. Maybe he just needs her  _out of_   _his goddamn way_.

It doesn't matter because Clarke understands it all—she hears it all in his voice, but can't seem to stop him. She runs her hands across her face and through her hair in frustration. Bellamy waits. It's an odd sort of patience that grips him. The kind that comes when he's out hunting,  _stalking_ his prey.

Their gazes meet. Their breaths pause in inhale.  _Find another way_ , Clarke is trying to say without words.  _There is no other way_ , Bellamy responds silently. And just like that, she nods and moves out of his way. He wants to plead to the Grounder to  _not make him do this,_ but he knows it'll be empty words falling upon deaf ears.

He moves to pick up a nail. Their gazes break, and something innocent breaks in them both as Bellamy shoves the nail into the Grounders hand—he moans in pain, his hands and body shake in shock, Octavia screams hysterically, but it's all just background noise to Bellamy.

Because  _this savage_  forced him to become a savage too. Shame tries to hug Bellamy in its embrace, but…

But he can deal with being a savage. He can deal with the break he felt when the nail met skin. Bellamy decides right there that being a monster isn't so bad as long as it's  _for_  his people… _his people_  who he would do almost anything for. His sister who he would gladly die for.

He'd do almost anything for his people, except watch them become monsters, too. But Raven's already electrifying him, and yelling at him that  _Finn's all she has_. The Grounder could care less. But Octavia cares. Octavia  _always cares_ , and too damn much for Bellamy's liking.

Before anyone can stop her, Octavia cuts her forearm with the same poisoned knife that the Grounder had used to cut into Finn. Poison runs at top speed through her veins, but she doesn't feel any different. She doesn't really feel at all—she  _can't_ feel because she's lost in the Grounder's eyes.

She's lost and found, wishing  _so badly_  that she could take his pain from him. Octavia prays that the connection that ties her to  _him_ , ties him to her, too.  _Please don't let this be just in my head_. She doesn't want to die…but more importantly she doesn't want to be  _lost and found in him_ alone.

Unrequited feelings had ruined better and stronger women than her.

But all Bellamy sees is his sister bleeding, and it's like the Earth pauses.  _No. Not her. His sister, his responsibility_. There's no other option but the Grounder, and so Bellamy pleads silently with everyone else.  _Please, help her_.  _Don't let my baby sister die_.  _Anyone but her_.

But the Grounder can't hear him. Instead, he's searching Octavia's eyes, deep into her soul, and he sees an image of himself reflected back at him. Like an imprint of the deepest kind, they are branded into each other with that simple gaze; he points at the antidote.

Everyone breathes easier…except Bellamy who can only focus on the fact that  _he's failed them even if they don't know it_ …except Clarke who can only believe that she's turned into a monster.

The storm continues to rage outside, unperturbed by the horrors of human's guilt-ridden soul and hands.

**

Everyone stands outside together, gazing at the destruction that the storm had left behind. Everyone stares, dumbstruck, wondering how in the heck anything would ever be okay again. But then they see Bellamy walk up to a fallen tent. His gait is stiff, his fists tightly clenched. His eyes burn in anguish and despair at everything that has happened—at his own failure to keep them all  _safe_  and  _secure_.

Images of his worst moments and his best flit through his mind: Clarke plunging a makeshift knife into Atom's neck, Charlotte falling into the abyss of Earth, Octavia's disappointment shining in her eyes, three hundred clouds made of bodies in the sky, Roma dying in the woods on their way to rescue Octavia, Murphy's bloody face hanging off a tree…Clarke promising that  _we'll figure something out_ , the faith in him that never dies in Murphy's eyes, the loyalty in Stirling's hand as he picked up a rifle to help look for Octavia—a girl he can't stand—simply because she mattered to Bellamy, everyone screaming  _whatever the hell we want_ …the feel of rain falling from the sky, making him reborn and washing him anew.

The happiness and pain and  _every other emotion that he's ever felt_  mix together until it's a ball of undiluted power holding him erect.

Their natural leader looks broken and possessed; he feels broken and possessed, but  _screw you, I'm not afraid_  and so he picks up a long stick and hoists the tent up as best as he can. He looks out into the crowd and finds Clarke staring right back at him.

The message is clear: Leaders stand when everyone else can't. The question in his gaze is clear as day to her: will she lead  _with_  him, or fall with the crowd?

The silent question is  _too much, too soon_ , but she doesn't have time to think before her feet are carrying her over to his side, and she picks up another stick and hoists up another end of the same flappy tent.

_Leaders stand when everyone else can't_  so as to give the people strength to stand. The wind is silent. The sun peaks through the clouds in the sky. The storm is over, and everyone fans out and begins to rebuild what little they all had.

Leaders stand, and eventually everyone else stands with them.

**

Eventually, the natural buzz that always seems to be in camp comes back and Clarke approaches Bellamy.

"You're bleeding," she says briskly. There's so much to do, and never enough time to do any of it.

"I'll be fine, Princess," Bellamy responds just as tersely. "Just a scratch."

"It needs to be treated or it'll get infected," she glares at him. There's anger in her gaze. He feels the same rage festering inside of him at her. There's no rhyme or reason to their sudden animosity. There doesn't need to be.

It's intrinsically a part of who they are to each other—enemies of the most intimate kind because they're so close to being friends if only they didn't hate and resent each other more often than they cared;  _they can take each other's rage_. They're strong enough. So they don't hold back with each other.

"There's a lot to do around here—"

"And none of it will get done if you die of infection," Clarke cuts him off with that pushy way of hers. Bellamy doesn't have the patience at the moment and simply strips off the shirt, and waves his hands out on either side of him as if to say  _fine, treat it and go_.

Clarke wants to suggest that they go inside the drop ship, but she knows that neither of them are ready for that space or that conversation. Instead, she sets the bucket of moonshine down with a  _thunk_  and dips the cloth into it.

"We can't keep him here," she says suddenly. They both know who  _him_  is without question. His chest has a long shallow cut that runs diagonally from right under his left collar bone to his right side. Though her hands burn a bit from the moonshine, because of a few cuts, she easily ignores it; his body heat permeates the cloth that separates her hand and his body. "His people will come looking for him."

"Then let them come," Bellamy ignores the sting.

"Easy to say," Clarke prepares herself for a battle. She knows that Bellamy won't lay down without a fight. Somehow, along the days of fear and panic, she's begun to  _know_ him. "But what are we going to do if they attack? We're not prepared for something like that. You can't protect all of us. You won't be able to—not if we're outnumbered or out-skilled, which we will be."

She didn't mean to hit him in such a raw wound like his inability to protect Finn or Octavia. She didn't mean to, but she did, and Bellamy can't stand the touch of her any longer. His hands grip her wrist suddenly and roughly. He holds tight, trying to reign the anger in—the fear that  _she's right_  and that  _he'll never be able to protect his sister or his people the way he wants to_.

"We might not win," Bellamy pushes his fear to a corner in his mind. He can still hear the beating of a frightened child's heart pounding against his right eye, but this isn't about his doubts. This is about so much more than that. "You might be right, sure, but then what? What would you have me do? Let him go? After we tortured him? After I  _crucified_ him?"

"We can't just  _keep him_! His people  _will_  come looking for him, Bellamy. Keeping him here isn't an option." She's discussing this with reason and logic. But Bellamy isn't reasonable. He isn't logical. Not really. He feels everything intensely, and reacts with his gut instinct.

His gut instinct is telling him now that if they bow down to the Grounders, then they'll be bowing down for the rest of their lives.

"What more do they have to do before you accept that we have to fight fire with fire?!" Bellamy hauls her closer to him in his frustration. " _His people_  wouldn't hesitate to keep any number of us prisoner."

"We've already fought  _fire with fire_  today, and look how that turned out!" Clarke lashes back at him. Bellamy's frustration bleeds into her, and she pushes at him roughly, angry at his lack of reason.

The brain (all reason and logic) and the heart (all instinct and raw emotions) stand pitted against each other, oblivious to the hundred milling about trying to eavesdrop. But this isn't about the hundred. Not this moment. Not this conversation. Not really. This is about them—who they are and who they're willing to be. This is about discovering some middle ground between being monsters and being the good guys.

But neither have an answer to that burning question. In frustration Clarke turns and walks away without another word. Bellamy watches her, wondering if they'd always be the way they are now...if they would ever find that mysterious middle ground.

**

The night is fast approaching and the camp still looks in shambles. It's better than it was when the storm ended, but it's a pathetic version of what everyone had made it before the Earth head attacked viciously.

Bellamy, too focused on camp, let Fox try her hand at hunting—he didn't have the heart to tell her that she was horrible at it, and so everyone's a bit irritable at having to eat berries and nuts instead of meat. Clarke's banking on the moonshine to fix the mood, but even moonshine can't fix the clear aggression and stiffness that spreads between the co-leaders; everyone has noticed, but no one wants to have their head bitten off by mentioning it.

Clarke and Bellamy have tried to keep their interactions throughout the day to a bare minimum, but somehow they still found their way to each other in that annoying way that made them hyper aware of the unresolved tension between them.

"We're living like this is only temporary," Miller points out in that no-bullshit way of his.

"The question is,  _is_  this only temporary?" Murphy asks without any tact. He's trying to be better, but better doesn't necessarily mean different.

Nonetheless, it's a legitimate question and one that neither Bellamy nor Clarke have fully addressed. They look at each other for a moment, and the answer is clear because Bellamy won't ever be caged again. Clarke won't either, though she's afraid of what life will be like without the structure of the Ark; there's something comforting about having authority figures and rules—parameters to live within or strive against.

"No," Bellamy says. "This isn't temporary."

"This may not be temporary, but we can't afford to give too much thought to living arrangements right now. The tents are fine for now," Clarke says, ever the bearer of reason.

"Well, what about Native American houses?" Murphy cuts in before the conversation becomes a pissing contest between Clarke and Bellamy, instead of a legitimate discussion. The words, however, don't bring the desired response he'd hoped for. Bellamy raises an eyebrow that clearly says  _what the fuck are you talking about_. Clarke looks at him as if he has three heads, and Miller rolls his eyes silently saying  _I don't even want to know_. He glares as he continues. "Don't give me those looks. You and goggles are the ones that are always fucking bringing up the goddamn Apache—talking about how you  _are_  Apache, whatever the hell that means. I'm just saying, native houses are easy to build in theory…I think."

"You think?" Bellamy isn't in the mood for maybe's. Clarke doesn't bother to even attempt a glare since it's been her experience that Bellamy's  _never_  in the mood for maybe's.

"Well,  _I'm not a goddamn Apache_ , but it seems pretty simple enough. Sticks and dirt, man. And they lived in the cold, too, and they never froze so I figure neither will we."

"If we do it right," Miller puts his two cents in. But he's a soldier, born and bred by the head of the Guard as his father—he'll make it happen if Bellamy orders it. He doesn't really work in maybe's either. No one ever taught him how.

"We need to keep the focus on  _surviving tomorrow_ ," Clarke turns to Bellamy. "We need all hands on deck."

"Yea, but  _they_  need to see that we're not going anywhere." Bellamy doesn't bother to explain who they are; there are too many  _they's_  to count—the Council, the Grounders, the hundred. "We can spare a few people to help build one. If it works out, then we can look at everyone helping out to build more."

"Fine," Clarke concedes since it sounds fair enough. She knows she can't win them all with Bellamy so it's best to simply pick and choose her battles. "But what are we going to do about  _him?"_

_Here they fucking go again_ , Bellamy breathes in deep in a rush of anger and frustration. He's so tired of even  _thinking_  about that damn grounder that he'd chuck the guy out on his ass without another scratch if he thought it wouldn't come back to bite them all.

"What is he, your new boyfriend? That damn Grounder is the  _bane of my existence_ , I swear, and he's only been here a day" he runs his hands through his hair and pulls slightly. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.  _Do not lash out_.

Miller and Murphy are still there, waiting, watching, and so Bellamy waves them off with a simple "Murphy, get it done. Miller, we need that wall as secure as we can get it before nightfall's in full swing."

They take their dismissal in stride, surprisingly used to Bellamy's brash ways, despite it being only a few weeks on the ground.

"We can't keep him here," Clarke repeats the same sentiment she'd said earlier. Raven walks up to them, at that same moment, oblivious to the tension and states, "the council wants to talk to the people in charge."

Bellamy and Clarke both glare at her—Clarke because she has no intention of speaking with her mother unless necessary, and Bellamy because  _why in the hell would he ever care about what the Council wants_.

"Woah," Raven lifts her hands as though their eyes were made of bullets. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"We can't keep him here," Clarke decides to ignore Raven for the moment. Just looking at her makes her chest ache and stab in bursts; Raven has the one thing she wanted on this Earth, and she's can't deal with that. Not now. Maybe not ever.  _Focus_.

"Do you enjoy sounding like a parrot, Princess?" Bellamy's purposefully glib, but Clarke sees through the ruse. She sees  _him_ , and something in the air ignites. It rises and sways, and Bellamy and Clarke can't help but rise and sway with it. For Bellamy, it's allowing himself to meet her in the middle. "Look, give me an option that's worth hearing, and I'm all ears. You keep saying that we can't keep him here, but you haven't offered up a solution besides letting him go.  _Just_ letting him go, no guarantees or plans isn't an option. I'm willing to let the guy go, if you can come up with something that doesn't outright compromise our safety."

"Keeping him here when his people will come looking for him compromises our safety!"

"If they care enough to come looking for him, then he's useful for leverage at the very least."

It was like watching a game of ping pong, and Raven wasn't quite sure if she was a fan or not. Ever since landing the night before yesterday, she wasn't quite sure what relationship Bellamy and Clarke had. Her first encounter watching them, she was  _so sure_ that they were lovers. But watching them now, they seemed like the fiercest of enemies.

"Just…don't hurt him until we can figure something out," Clarke says, but she can't look him in the eyes. Not after what they did. Not after she had condoned hurting him so much before. "Maybe we can let him go with a message for his leader."

Clarke isn't looking at him so she doesn't see the flash of emotion that crosses him eyes. It's gone in an instant but it was bright, and one of the most  _realest_ things Raven has seen since landing. Realer than Finn's embrace that feels so forced on his part. Realer than Finn's kisses which don't last as long as they used to.

Raven doesn't quite know why, but in this moment, she misses the Finn she used to have acutely. Watching Clarke and Bellamy, though it makes no sense, she wishes she had whatever the hell they had.

"I won't hurt him," Bellamy agrees. His tone softens just a bit, but it's enough. Before either can get another word in, Jordan—a tall for his age thirteen year old kid buckles under the weight of a large cut tree used for the wall. Bellamy curses and goes to help him when Jordan spins and crashes into a stand full of branches and herbs.

Jordan stands up, and quickly assures everyone that "I'm okay, I'm okay." Bellamy murmurs, "That kid is gonna give me an early heart attack."

Clarke rolls her eyes, and turns to walk away. In the action, Bellamy sees what she's holding tightly in her right hand—the nail that he drove through the grounder's hand.  _Focus. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Focus._

But it's like the Earth is crashing on his chest, and he can't just let her walk away with that nail. He can't let her walk away with that burden, and so he catches her hand as it is swinging and she's walking away. Their fingers brush, and there's so much to say and no way to say any of it properly. But he feels a shock of thrill at the forbidden action, and he can't look away. He knows that she felt it, too, because her eyes flit to his, clouded in a moment of shared emotion. Whatever emotion it may be is indistinguishable from all the anger, hate, fear, and  _passion for life_.

If only moments didn't run away so fast; he needs to say something,  _anything_  that will help the acid that's burning its way through his chest and throat calm down.

"Hey, we'll get it cleaned up," he's talking about Jordan the tornado, but he's also talking about  _everything else. Their lives._

"I wish this was our only mess," Clarke says honestly. Even subtext is tiring after a day like today. Right now, in this moment, all Clarke wants to deal in is the blatant truth.

It's not about being strong. It's about being able to lean on each other, right? Isn't that the point of leading with someone else? Not being alone?

" _Who we are, and who we need to be to survive are very different things_ ," Bellamy whispers.  _Believe_ , because if she doesn't then he really is a monster. If she doesn't believe, then he'll never be able to live with what he's done.

But it isn't just about him; he can see how haunted her eyes are. He can feel the difference in the air, and he'll be damned if they break over  _this_.

They have to be stronger than their enemies; they have to be just as ruthless as their enemies, and he won't apologize for recognizing it. He won't apologize for understanding that it's okay to be a monster sometimes.

Clarke sees that understanding in his eyes, and wonders if that's all they are: people playing at being monsters, while the real ones run free, in wait, outside of their walls.

"There are so many choices and decisions to make…" Clarke sighs, tired and worn out emotionally and physically. But Bellamy hears what she doesn't say:  _how are we supposed to decide everything all on our own_.

But Bellamy's always been the one to decide for Octavia; it feels like he's always been on his own, even when he wasn't and his mother was around.  _He's not afraid_.

"It's not easy being in charge, is it?" the words leave his mouth before he can stop them. They're bitter, and rough, but he recalls how fast she stands on her righteous pedestal. He knows how quick she is to judge him, and though it's petty, it's feels nice and triumphant to know that  _now_  she knows what it means to make hard decisions.

All of the decisions that she had been rallying for in the past had been easy ones—made easier by her own self-righteous importance and the fact that the hundred weren't looking at her to make the call. Run or stay. Help Jasper. Put Atom out of his misery. The people have a right to know. Cut Murphy down. We can't live by whatever the hell we want.

She didn't have to think about how every simple decision would affect the building of the wall—all she saw was that it was getting done on his orders; she didn't have to worry about how certain comments meant more fear, and more fear meant no one would go out hunting, so no one would eat—all she noticed was that at the end of a long, hard day treating cuts and such, there was food waiting for her to eat because he always made sure that there were left overs; she didn't have to contemplate whether or not every life that was lost to something new on Earth was her fault for not being more strict, or maybe being too strict—all she knew was that people got hurt and she needed to try to fix it.

But  _now_  she does.  _Now_  she finally grasps what it means to  _be_  a leader, not just in name, or in sporadic moments, but a permanent one, with all the worry-all-the-time that comes with it.

It's horrible, and strange, but it soothes something in him that had thought he was all alone. But not anymore. Not anymore.

"Uh, not to ruin the moment," Raven cuts in, "but the council is still waiting."

"They'll want my head on a platter," Bellamy ignores Raven, and it irks her how Clarke and Bellamy can just ignore the world.

"We'll figure something out," Clarke lifts her hand to touch his arm, but lets it fall instead. The silence wants to stretch but Raven wasn't born to be ignored, and she remembers how alike her and Bellamy are on the inside.

"I heard this is permanent," Raven says.

"We  _just_  decided that," Bellamy says exasperated. "The gossip grapevine around here is getting ridiculous."

Raven rolls her eyes, shrugs, and continues on, "Make it clear that this isn't the Ark, and on the ground they don't decide who lives or dies. Tell 'em that if they want you that they'll have to go through almost a hundred kids to get to you."

"That's a bit presumptuous, even for me," Bellamy smirks a bit at her straight back and confident words. There's a tingle in his belly of warmth at how ready she is to defend him—a stranger, practically. The reason three hundred lives are gone. But they are each other's people, and that counts more than he had ever thought it could when he first took charge of the rag-tag delinquents.

"Give me a break," Raven rolls her eyes and purses her lips. Sass doesn't even begin to cover Raven Reyes. "Are you the fearless leader or not? I say, get over your shit and hand the council their ass."

Bellamy and Clarke can't help the amusement that surfaces on their faces. But they also can't deny that Raven's right—they need to stop acting like they are defenseless, like they're scared, because  _screw you, they're not afraid_.

**

The silence is awkward as Bellamy and Clarke stare into the face of Thelonious Jaha—the man he shot, and though he's glad he's alive, just looking into the eyes of the man who had hurt his family,  _his people_ , made him want to shoot him all over again.

But he tries to keep his face impassive, stoic,  _hard_.

"Bellamy Blake," Jaha looks intently at him like a man who can't decide if he's been blessed or condemned. "I've waiting a long while to finally see you."

Bellamy doesn't respond. Clarke looks into his eyes, questioning whether or not he wants her to step in, but he doesn't give anything away.  _Just stay hard. Stay hard. Stay focused_. It's a mantra in his head to not break.

Clarke can't hear him, but she can feel him, in that way that's strange and real and awkward at first. She  _feels_  him and so she stays quiet, too.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Jaha is disconcerted by their silence and poise. "Either of you?"

Bellamy and Clarke share another look, and something like fire and ice clash and freeze and burn within their gazes; they aren't afraid.

"You aren't  _my_  chancellor," Bellamy declares with strength, though his knees bounce a bit in jitters. "You wanted to speak to the people in charge. Well, here we are."

"You have nothing to say for yourself? Your attempt on my life?"

"I did what I had to do to get on the drop-ship. That's all I'm willing to say. Take it or leave it, it's the same for me."

Jaha clearly wants to go on the attack because  _doing what you have to do_  isn't a viable reason to  _shoot_  someone in space in his book. But before things could go further, Clarke cuts in.

"What was so urgent the council wanted to speak to us about?"

"We wanted to know who was in charge and what the situation was. Someone was stabbed? How?"

Clarke and Bellamy looked at each other again, wondering how much to say and how much to keep to themselves. But the look in Bellamy's eyes said that he wouldn't speak except when he absolutely has to. It's childish, but it's the best he's got in himself at the moment.

"We're at war. He was stabbed while raiding an enemy camp," Clark gives the truth in its simplicity. No need to mention that he was raiding an enemy camp trying to rescue Octavia, or that the enemy had been captured. Simplicity is key.  _Guess Bellamy is rubbing off on her._

"War? War with who?" Jaha sits straight, back erect, power radiating off of him in waves—a product of being king in his domain and having been raised with power within his reach all of his life.

The posture and air set Bellamy's teeth on edge. He grinds his teeth, trying to stay quiet, but he knows he won't last for long.

"Turns out there are survivors down here. Best guess, we landed on someone's land, and they want it back."

"Well, have you spoken to them? Have they told you to move? Either way, you should probably move before this 'war' gets out of hand."

That statement is the straw that broke the camel's back because over Bellamy's  _goddamn dead body._ "Cowards! You and the guard play a tough game on the ark, where you're top dog, where there's no chance of losing. But really you're a bunch of cowards, taking advantage of being the only ones with weapons. Run?  _Run?_ I'll  _never run_. Not ever. Not if the  _fucking world fell around me_. That's never an option."

"This is not about you, Mr. Blake," Jaha says disapprovingly. "On that note, your presence is no longer needed in this conversation."

"That's where you're wrong,  _Chancellor_ ," Bellamy rebuts before Clarke can give him that pleading look to just  _go along with it_. "My people, my responsibility. And what you haven't quite grasped yet is that down here, on the ground,  _I'm fucking top dog_ , and you don't get to decide jack shit for them. You don't even get a say."

With that, Bellamy stands and leaves the tent, confident in his stride, fierce in his way. The lion of the sky, earthbound.

Silence settles over Jaha and Clarke for a moment.

She should excuse Bellamy's behavior. She should continue the conversation into more important things but… even though she'll probably eat him and spit him out later for this stunt and declaration, it's Clarke and Bellamy. Not separate. Not alone.  _Leaders stand together, and they are not afraid._

"If you're not Bellamy's Chancellor," Clarke lifts her jaw in defiance.  _This was the man that sent them all to the ground to die_.  _Expendable_  he called them. But they weren't. None of them. Not the killers or the thieves or the rapists. None of them were expendable. Everyone served a purpose down here. The land of  _second chances_. "Then you're not  _our_  Chancellor, or our people. And if you  _are_  with  _us_ , then you're with  _him_. I suggest you decide soon."

And she, too, walked out of the tent, leaving Jaha alone wondering,  _when did it all go wrong? This is the little girl who used to ask for piggy back rides? This is Kane's quiet and introvert bastard son who never knew his lineage? The trainee doctor and the janitor? When in the hell did they turn into leaders?_

Questions upon questions run through his mind, but Clarke and Bellamy never go back into the tent, and order no one else to, either. Instead, Bellamy walks to the food stand, takes a handful of berries, and, feeling her presence behind him, passes her some, too.

Night has overtaken them; the rage and tension between them has finally dissipated—the space around them awaiting its inevitable return because  _nothing lasts long on the ground._

But they eat silently, oddly comforted by the presence of the other because on a day like today it feels good not to be alone.  _It feels really good not to be alone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? Don't worry, Bellarke is coming, slowly, but surely. ;)  
> Note #1: What Murphy has in mind is actually a wigwam (from the Algonquian tribe), which is NOT just sticks and dirt, haha, so that'll be a moment when they realize. I purposefully made the mistake because, well, they're teenagers, and unless they were really into history (specifically Native American history) the chance they'd actually know or remember the difference (etc.) is slim.
> 
> Note #2: I am fully aware that Jaha is Bellamy's father in the books, and that Jason Rothenberg has stated that neither Kane nor Jaha will be Bellamy's father in the show, but I just can't overlook how similar Bellamy is to Kane. Like, the amount of parallels they have in the show is crazy, so I'm diving into it—why not, haha.


	5. The Would-be's that Never Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg! Did you guys seen episode 2 of season 3?! If you haven't, go watch it now, because Bellamy Blake and Bellarke will always move my soul even when they're apart in the episode. Also, I made a new Bellarke fan video, so you guys should all go and watch it, hehe. My name on youtube is the same as on here (LoverGurrl411). Anywho, on with the show!

_/He says, "oh, baby girl, y'know we're gonna be legends_

_I'm the king and you're the queen and we will stumble through heaven_

_If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes_

_I know you wanna go to heaven but you're human tonight/_

-Young God, Halsey

 

"You can't sleep with different girls at the same time, Dereck" Bellamy chastises, slightly annoyed and slightly amused.

"Why not? You have," Sterling questions, but the honest look in his eyes tells Bellamy that he's sincere.

"Oh my fu—" Bellamy sighs in exasperation. He's  _so_ over this conversation. "Women are sensitive, so you have to do it right. You can't just point at them and say crap like 'wanna fuck?' Okay? Girls want to feel like they're the only thing that matters in the world—oh hell, look, just do as I say and not as I do, alright? From now on, no more shacking up to more than one girl at a time."

Sterling and Derek both nod seriously, and walk away like they had just finished listening to the words straight from Zeus' mouth; maybe, to them, they had.

"Trying to be the bearer of morality? That's something I thought I'd never see," Clarke walks up to Bellamy, a small smirk playing on her lips. It's rare for Bellamy to see any sort of happiness on her face, and it kind of grates on his nerves.

"More like trying to avoid a major catfight in the middle of camp," he turns and continues to inspect the different nuts that are on the table.

"Who's fighting over Derek or Sterling?"

"Katherine and Sara. Apparently, Derek slept with them both this week and they both thought that it meant more than it did until they spoke and found out that they had both been sleeping with him."

"I didn't peg you as the type that cared for gossip," Clarke looks at him quizzically as she creates a packet-to-go mixed with berries, and these new nuts that Jasper and Monty had found. "In fact, I thought you hated it."

"It has its uses when it averts a crisis, like the one that was definitely coming this way." Bellamy stops sharpening knives and takes a long hard look at Clarke. They aren't the type for small and mindless chit chat. That's not what they do, and so he knows this conversation has to have a purpose, but he doesn't have the patience to wait it out so instead he just cuts to the chase: "What do you want, Princess? We both know it's not to be appraised of camp gossip."

"Raven spoke to the council—"

"I knew letting people use the communication to talk to their families would bite us in the ass."

Miller had brought up the fact that some people still had family and friends on the ark; Bellamy would have never let the hundred talk to their families if he had to give up his pride and ask the council for that favor. Pride is the only currency left to him, and her, when it comes to the Ark. Fortunately, Finn had stepped in and said he'd beg the favor—though Clarke told him that he shouldn't be walking  _anywhere_  until he heals fully.

Just the thought of Finn—there's a sadness and strange ache lingers. It lingers and lingers, like a shirt that snags on something and can't be untangled lest the whole shirt rips.

" _And_ ," Clarke continues unperturbed, "they say there's a bunker a few hours from here that might have supplies that we can use. Winter  _is_  coming."

"Yea, it is, which means we shouldn't go out chasing ghosts. We should spend whatever spare time hunting, trying to catch bigger animals, and making more blankets and clothes out of animal skin."

"They say that there might be guns in some of these bunkers," Clarke doesn't want to deal in guns, but she's acutely aware of how lacking they are in defending themselves. She knows that he's aware of it, too.

"What's the catch?" If there's one thing he knows to be true, it's that the ark doesn't give up something for nothing. The Ark, in its infinite greatness and coldness, always takes more than it gives.

"We have to be prepared to give the guns up to the council when they come down." Clarke doesn't move, but something in the way she speaks has Bellamy's brain moving a mile a second.

"You made this deal?" he questions, though he knows she hadn't. It's weird, the way he knows she wouldn't betray him, or their position as leaders to make a crappy deal like that.

"No, Raven did." Clarke eyes, so blue and so alive, pierce his and just like that it clicked, and Bellamy can't help the small smirk that makes its way on his face.

"She doesn't have the authority to make that kind of deal," he throws out, just to make sure that they're both on the same page.

"No, she doesn't."

"They gave her the coordinates?"

"Yes, they did."

"Guess we better get ready for a Day Trip, huh?" Bellamy smirks wider, and this time, Clarke's small smile doesn't rub him the wrong way.

He doesn't ask why she had come to him, instead Finn or Octavia, or  _anyone else but_ him; he knows that there's a tension between Clarke and her go-to people that runs deep and raw. He doesn't feel bad for her though. Not her. She doesn't need his pity. She doesn't need anything from him except for him to be who he is.

Frankly, it feels good to be accepted, especially when his own sister practically hates him over what happened with the Grounder. It feels good to get one-up on the Ark every once in a while, too. It's a feeling that they can share without fear or tension.

Clarke sees the realization in Bellamy's eyes, and they understand together that, well, despite all the pain and horror, in between the scars and panic, a lot of things are starting to feel good on the ground…small things, but they feel good just the same.

**

They'd found the bunker that they had been searching for, but water is everywhere. Water seeps into their shoes, and it's like lava fills his veins, because he wants to destroy  _everything, this bunker, this earth, himself_.

"Maybe we might find something, anyway," Clarke tries to calm him down—reassure him somehow. She can feel the heat of anger and desperation rising off of his skin.

"What we need are goddamn blankets or weapons— _something fucking useful instead of this shit!_ " Bellamy doesn't mean to but he can't contain himself, and his body lashes out in kicks and punches and attacks at their surroundings. He just wants something  _to go fucking right for once_.

But a fateful kick sends a barrel of guns dipped in oil to the ground, and the rage inside of him ceases. It ceases so abruptly that it leaves him with an overwhelming sense of vertigo.

 _This_  is what they'd been searching for.  _This_ is what they'd needed since they'd arrived on Earth. And suddenly, like the color of happiness on a rainbow, they're smiling and grinning and  _so goddamn okay_  because they just might win this war after all.

Bellamy hands Clarke a gun, but she's hesitant to take it; this isn't what she wants for herself or for their people. But Bellamy tells her that _she needs to learn_ , and she understands why he wants her to, why she does need to, but it doesn't mean she's going to be comfortable with it.

The gun feels heavy in her hand, like the weight of all the pain she's caused and seen and felt. The gun feels like the weight of all her fears. As Bellamy goes to set up some type of target, she tries to distract herself with the first thing that pops into her head.

"Didn't I walk in on  _you_  sleeping with both Sara and Katherine...at the same time?"

"Princess, I'm  _me_ ," Bellamy tries to cover his awkwardness over discussing his sex life with Clarke with cockiness and bravado.

"Oh, of course," Clarke rolls her eyes. " _King Bellamy_  can do anything he wants, is that it?"

Bellamy can't help the burst of laughter that comes out of him. He doesn't mean to laugh, and he doesn't consciously have a reason for the laugh, but he can't quite hold it in. It's the vertigo that's getting to him. Or perhaps it's the fact that the  _princess_  actually called him  _king_. Or maybe it's simply the giddiness fighting with the fire to let him enjoy  _something_  every once in a while.

"Really?" Clarke raises an eyebrow in exasperation at his laughter. Bellamy, though, can't stop laughing, and the more he laughs the more annoyed she becomes; the more irritated she becomes, the more Bellamy laughs until there are tears in his eyes, and he feels he can't breathe in the best way possible.

It's been a damn long time since anyone has seen him laugh. It's been  _too long_  since he's laughed at all.

"I think you're suffering from jackassness." Clarke purses her lips tightly, but Bellamy has finally settled himself down enough to respond.

"What the pretty little princess has yet to realize is that sex is  _never_  just about sex. It's about wanting something  _badly_ ," he speaks lowly, casually, gruffly, as he walks up to her and sidles behind her to help shift her stance. "Sex, even casual sex, is about  _sharing_  an experience, and taking as much as you can, and maybe even giving something, too."

"That doesn't sound very loving," Clarke tilts her head to the side so that their faces are inches apart. Their breaths mingle, and his hand is on her shoulder—she feels an attack of lightheadedness sweep past her, but she can't focus on the heat or how close they are—that's not what this moment is about.

Sex for her had been romantic and significant, and  _loving_. She had thought she had been sharing her feelings with Finn and he had been sharing his with her. She had thought that their feelings had mattered…until Raven appeared and put Clarke's faith in her own judgement in a tailspin.

"Who said sex had to be loving?" Bellamy questioned, truly curious as to why sex was always put in this beautiful box. "Sex can be crazy, and  _hot_. But it can also be  _meaningful_  without love. When people fall into each other, they give a piece of themselves to the other person…Yea, I slept with Sara and Katherine at the same time, and, yea, it was fun, but that doesn't mean that it didn't matter just because I don't love them and they don't love me."

"Isn't that exactly what it means?" Clarke challenges him. They don't move. They can't move because something is being born in this moment, in their shared breath and heat, and  _life._

"Did it mean more when you slept with Spacewalker just because you loved him?" he let the fire that always burns bright within him lick at his heels. He'd rather be cruel than be judged. "Did it stop him from walking back to Raven?"

She doesn't question how he knows she slept with Finn. Clarke figures he knows the same way she knows he's slept with more girls than just Sara or Katherine—the hundred gossip grapevine which somehow sees and hears all, even when no one is around.

But his words burn her something fierce, and she can't stand the touch of him. But she doesn't move away from him. Pain rakes through her, at the honest truth, because her feelings hadn't mattered one bit— _her feelings hadn't stopped Finn from leaving, or betraying her_.

Pain lingers in her eyes and silences them both. This silence takes them away from the bunker, and takes them to a room full of lilies and flowers as bright as the sun. Silence affords them a peace that they strive so hard to get, and in this moment, Bellamy realizes how small Clarke is; his hand covers her tiny shoulder and he stands a foot taller than her—something he'd never noticed because she's always walking right up to his face with purpose. She's always  _pushing_  and  _challenging_  him in a way that her height never even registers in his mind.

Somehow, somewhere, she'd become this Amazonian woman in his gaze, and  _that woman_ , she was beautiful…Clarke is beautiful. And he had never noticed until this very moment.

But the bunker creaks, the silence breaks, and Bellamy shakes his head hard and breaks contact. He shakes the remnant of would-be-desire from his brain. It leaves without protest, consumed by everything else he always feels. Because if there is one fact about Bellamy Blake, it's that he feels  _too much_.

Bellamy takes his own gun and aims at the target—a breath slows his beating heart. It's one of the few things he had loved about being a cadet—the shooting range. There's a control in the act of shooting, a peace that only comes when so much  _power_  lies in his hands. It's invigorating and exhilarating and  _everything life should be all the damn time_.

His finger pulls on the trigger, swiftly, like when he's with a woman, but nothing happens.  _Nothing happens_ , and this can't be right. He looks back at Clarke, a little surprised and a little embarrassed, and presses the trigger again. Again,  _nothing happens_ , and only  _fucking Earth_  could ruin the  _one blessed_  thing in his life.

"Mine's full of duds," he tries to say tonelessly, dispassionately,  _any way except petulantly pissed off_. "Try yours."

Clarke aims like Bellamy had positioned her before, and pulls the trigger. She doesn't take a breath to feel the metal in her hands like he had or let anything special wash over her. She simply pulls, and fires and  _of course the damn Princess would get what he wanted in this moment_.

But she smiles at him; she smiles like he's some type of storybook hero come to save her from monsters…but Clarke's her own hero—thirty seconds talking to her that first fateful day, and Bellamy knew that. Still, she smiles at him like  _everything's alright,_  and, well, it is for a moment.

He can't help but smile back because everything  _is_  alright, and  _nothing_  could ruin this moment…nothing except them.

"Am I a horrible person for enjoying that?" Clarke asks half-jokingly, half seriously, because that's the only way they ever talk—in half truths.

"No," Bellamy responds with his own half-truth and a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. The honest truth is that he's not sure.  _He's not sure of anything_ , but he'll never admit that.

The lie and his own hypocrisy start to strangle him, and he feels the heat rising. Clarke takes a long look at him, and sees the way his freckles seem to disappear in the dark.

His eyes see right through her, and she feels more naked than when she had actually been naked with Finn. The air stifles them. It chokes and  _who knew that silence could be this hard_.

"Keep practicing," Bellamy says gruffly and clipped. "I need some air."

She breathes his name, like a plea or a prayer, but he doesn't stop. She watches his back until she can't see him anymore, and thinks,  _what's happening to us?_  But soon, her father appears, and she's tormented, and all thoughts of Bellamy, and the heat that surrounded them inexplicably and unbidden runs from her mind.

All thoughts of  _heat_ , and  _touch_ , and  _everything else_  between Bellamy and her run away…lost to the Earth as everything goes black.

**

Everything on Earth happens  _too fast_ ,  _too hard_. One minute all the dead and  _not so dead_  hallucinations are haunting Bellamy, tormenting him. One minute he's begging them to  _please, just kill him._ He can't take all the pain. He can't take all the pressure. He can't stand to be himself. He can't stand who he has become.

In another minute, Dax is above him, pointing a gun at him, and Clarke is there defending him, and  _no. not her. Anyone but her. Why? Why?_

Rage and betrayal,  _because Dax is supposed to be his people,_ rushes through Bellamy, and this time he doesn't try to contain it. He roars and tackles Dax to the ground. He doesn't stop to contemplate  _why_  it matters so much. He doesn't stop to question why his heart had stuttered when he saw Clarke duck behind the tree to avoid a bullet—she's not  _special_ , and yet he can't control his fists.

He can't control the pain at  _knowing_  that Dax spoke, and Clarke heard, and  _now she knows what happened._  Shumway. The Deal. The gun.  _Everything that matters_.

But Clarke's trying to work the gun that seems to have only duds left, and it distracts Bellamy. It's only a split second where he hesitates, but it's enough and now Dax is on top. He's pounding away, but it doesn't matter. He's trying to fight, but  _it's so hard_. Everything's hard on Earth.  _Too hard._

Dax can't remember why he's fighting though. It was all so clear a minute ago, but the way everything on Earth moves, even reason stops making sense and Shumway isn't his leader anymore. But Shumway is coming down. It can't be that simple, can it?  _Nothing's ever that simple on the ground_ , and he sort of hates Bellamy, too. It's nothing personal, but his fists keep flying and  _it's all personal_  because Bellamy slept with Sara and  _why did it have to be her?_

Why did it have to be  _him_? Anyone but him. Bellamy was supposed to be a rock, solid, dependable,  _his leader-not just his people._ Bellamy was supposed to be  _better_ , above it all.

Dax doesn't want to do this. He doesn't. But every time he tries to move on he pictures Bellamy's hands on her waist, his lips on her lips. He can't get past it. He can't get past the fact that  _they are each other's people_  and it wasn't supposed to be like this- not on the ground. The ground was supposed to be the light, but it's too dark. It's  _too dark_ , and  _too much_.

It doesn't matter that Dax has never kissed Sara properly. It doesn't matter that Sara slept with Derek this week; he expected something like that from that douche. All that matters is the fury inside of him; he can't contain it. He doesn't want to. Because he remembers holding Sara's hand, and how tight she squeezed it as she fell asleep on his shoulder. He remembers the way she smiles at him when no one else is looking.

He remembers all that could have been, instead of what was.

Bellamy's blood and pain are a Grace that cauterize something feral inside of him, and his fists are weapons of destruction. Blood. Blood. More.  _More_. It'll never be enough, not until Sara's finally his.

Clarke launches herself at Dax's back like a Fury yelling  _get off of him!_  Dax lets the butt of the rifle fly into Clarke's stomach, and she doubles over in pain.

Bellamy's pain is like backdrop noise;  _nothing matters_  except making sure Clarke is safe, and his hands grip at the sides to find something,  _anything_. But all he clutches is dirt; all he feels is  _the damned Earth that takes and takes and never gives back_ —but he feels the shell, cold and sharp, on his finger tips and he grasps it and swings.

He swings without thought or intent. He swings, instinct more than his pain. Dax falls to the side, blood pooling out of his neck, images of Sara's smile comforting him as the world goes dark; his final thought wondering  _maybe that's what heaven is—pictures of her forever_.

Pain fills Bellamy's body. But Clarke is crawling towards a tree, and  _please let her be alright._

He hauls himself upright enough to make it to the tree, where she's leaning. His hand finds her knee; it's a simple touch, swift. It reassures him that  _she's okay. She's okay,_ and  _thank god._

"You're okay," she says through the pain and breathlessness. She can't contain the words inside of herself. The relief is too strong.

"No, I'm not," he replies, unable to look at her. His demons had showed him just how  _not okay_  he is.  _Too many demons_.  _Too much_. And it's like a pipe has burst inside of him and he can't keep all these demons inside. He can't keep this burden on his shoulders…but he doesn't have to. He doesn't have to keep it all inside—can't even if he wants to, and so he continues on. "If my mother knew what I had done, who I am…she raised me to be better, to be  _good_."

"Bellamy—"

"And  _all I do is hurt people_ ," he continues undisturbed. These demons are tearing him up inside. He sees everyone that died in his name, the Grounder who he tortured, Dax who he killed, and his own sister who barely looks at him anymore, too full of shame. " _I'm a monster_."

"Hey," Clarke doesn't know what to do, what she  _can_  do. But she remembers not so long ago, when she had been the one tortured. She remembers when she had been the one who couldn't get past it all by herself—past her part in Charlotte's death; she remembers that he had given her his words, and his strength and it had been enough. Hopefully it's enough from her. "You saved my life today…and you may be a total ass half the time but… _I need you_ , we _all_ need you. None of us would've survived this place if it wasn't for you."

Bellamy refuses to look at her, and it tears at them; they're all about contact, even simple eye contact. She can see him drowning inside of his own guilt. She can practically feel the chains that are wrapped around his wrist, tying him down, trying to break him.

But he can't break. He can't break because he's not a  _he_  anymore, but a  _they_. They're in this together, and she knows that if he breaks, then they'll break. And  _they_  can't afford to break anymore. Not anymore.  _Never again_.

"You want forgiveness?" he turns to look at her. Finally, they lock eyes and she can see that he's burning for it—even if only from her. Maybe,  _especially_  from her—the girl who's constantly judging him, and finding him wanting. "Fine, I'll give it to you: you're forgiven, okay. But you can't give up. You  _can't_  give up, you have to  _face_  it."

"Like you faced your mom?" It's a cheap shot, and he knows it, but he's burning too raw right now to say  _nothing_.

"You're right. I don't want to face my mom. I don't want to face any of it. All I think about every day is how we're going to keep everyone alive, but we don't have a choice."

_We don't have a choice. We._

Bellamy can't help but sigh and simply look up at the stars. The stars sparkle and shine, unmoving, infinite. "Guess it's you and me, Princess."

"Yea," Clarke looked up at the sky with him, exhausted but content because she understands what he's really saying;  _things won't ever be the same again between them, but that's okay, too._ "It's you and me."

 _You. Me. We. Together._ Born from the ashes of their despair and blood hanging on the wind,  _they_.

**

When they arrive at camp,  _finally_ , everyone seems to be thrown about, clutching at their stomachs or heads. Clarke and Bellamy share a look that clearly says  _bunch of babies_. They can hear people whispering about how the Grounder escaped and  _what if they attack_.

"Let them come!" Bellamy walks up and shouts. He'll never let fear control him ever again. He looks at Clarke, sees her strength edging him on. Not anymore. Maybe never again. No,  _they'll_  never let fear control them again.

They walk further in camp and drop the significant pile of automatic rifles. Finn stares, eyes burning with betrayal— _guns_ , but Clarke can't focus on him. Not him. Anyone but him. Silence sweeps over camp, and the hundred walk over and loosely encircle them in awe. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm tired of being afraid." His words crush and remake and rebuild, and  _they are all each other's people._

People start to nod, lost in their own thoughts in the moment, burying the Arkers inside of them, and letting themselves become Grounders slowly,  _slowly_. Yea, they  _are_  tired of being afraid. But they have Bellamy and Clarke, and they all think  _how the hell can they lose with the Fearless Leader and Brave Princess on their side?_

"These are weapons," Clarke says after a moment, "not toys. And there are more where these came from. The guard will expect us to give them up when they come…but these are  _ours_. They're gonna help keep us safe, so take care of them, keep them in good condition, because we're not getting any more and we're not giving them up."

Clarke looks at Raven, but Raven isn't angry or upset. Raven feels a sense of  _something_ , maybe pride, maybe  _sisterhood_ , because Clarke isn't doing the "right" or "good" thing. No, Clarke is doing what Raven would do.  _To hell with the council_. She can respect her for that. She can move past the suspicion that's smothering her over how long Finn stares at Clarke; she hopes she can, she prays silently to all the travelers in the sky that she can— _In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Please, oh, please let him still be in love_. .

"Tomorrow we start training," Bellamy can't help but look at Connor who has his arms around Bethany, and Mark who's holding on tight to Rosemary's hand. He gets it. He gets it, and he wants them to understand what these guns  _represent_. "We start training and we'll never be defenseless ever again."

 _Never again_.

Later that night, Bellamy and Clarke think about the different kinds of  _everything_  that had happened between them while lying in their respective makeshift beds. They think and think until their eyes droop, and they discard the foreign sensations in their bellies as products of the hallucinogenic nuts they had eaten. The darkness engulfs them. The air shifts, contracts, and expands again.

The prospect of what could have been seeps through the cracks of the camp…flying, flying, gone, waiting to come back another day  _like so many other things between them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? I brought in the Traveler's Prayer because I read somewhere that the writers created it as a legitimate prayer that people would say when people die, get floated, married, and as a general prayer that isn't tied to any specific religion, but a part of collective Ark spirituality that comes from their ancestors who lived on the ground.  
> Also, I'm trying to slowly bring in the thought that there could be more between them without making it fall in like a hammer or rushed. Let me know what you guys think!


	6. United We Stand As We Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me someone else is losing their minds over Bellarke besides me?! Like, really, I think my soul may not be able to take much more of this is season 3. Can’t wait for tonight’s episode. Bright side to all who are worried about Bellamy being on the wrong side (because I sure am): Jason Rothenberg said in an interview last week that "I don’t want to spoil too much, but a few episodes later events unfold where had he not done that and that army was still there, they’d be f**ked.” 
> 
> Anywho, I kind of got carried away with this chapter, and it’s super long. So nervous if it’s okay, but I honestly could not re-read this one more time—one of the few times I’m sorely regretting not having a beta. Hope everyone enjoys!

_/Lately I, every time I try to lie down, oh, my mind just gets away_

_I can’t even close my eyes now between the big fish and ambition, and_

_The lovers using words as ammunition; between the warped planks I’ve been pacing_

_Endless impossible dream that I’ve been chasing/_

\--Violin, Amos Lee

 

“When did you lose your virginity?” Jasper asks Bellamy as they’re deciding on the safest route to the caves for more honey. The inside of the caves on the east, firmly in grounder territory, are lined with honey. It’s hard to get to, but everyone’s pretty much tired of eating meat with no taste.

Harper had discovered it when she had gotten lost last week (and taken an arrow into her arm), and it was both a blessing and curse—to know it’s there, but having no safe way to get to it.

But Jasper’s words cut through Bellamy’s brain, and he can only blink owlishly for a moment.

“How do I find myself in these conversations?” Bellamy looks up at the sky and asks everyone and no one.

“What? It’s Unity Day,” Jasper shrugs. “It’s a day for sharing.”

“No,” he shakes his head, and turns back to their makeshift map. “It’s really _not_.”

“C’mon, you’re like the love guru, dude,” Monty joins the conversation with the same affability and pointedness that he does everything. “It’s kind of selfish to keep that kind of knowledge to yourself.”

“Show us your ways, oh love guru,” Jasper mocks bows to Bellamy. 

“ _Please_ tell me that people don’t actually call me that,” but there’s amusement in his eyes, and it encourages Jasper. Kind of like an older brother to a younger brother, or a leader to his people. But the truth is that he is father to them all, the only father that they’ve got, at least.

 

***

 

“Do I even want to know why Murphy and our ‘building crew’ are covered in dirt?” Clarke raises her eyebrow at Bellamy.

“You mean more than usual?” Bellamy snickers a bit. They’re in good form today. There’s something about Unity Day that, well, makes the whole world feel a little lighter.

It’s a day of hope. No one is immune to it—not even the eternal pragmatist and pessimist.

“I mean more than _ever_.”

“Apparently that hut isn’t quite as simple as they thought, and all the Earth Skills classes in the world couldn’t prepare them for that. Just _sticks and dirt_ my ass.”

Something about his tone…

“You know what they’re doing wrong.” Clarke doesn’t need to ask. They’re past asking useless questions, and pretending that they don’t know one another. _They_. And it feels good to not pretend anymore, even if they’re the only two that know it.

“Yup, but I figure I’ll let them struggle a bit more before I share my expertise.” The smirk on his face shimmers and shines; it looks good on him, and Clarke notices in that way that she notices that the cut on his hand is fresh and Bellamy’s favoring his left side—probably a run in with a boar—and his hair is getting ridiculously long which means that it’ll need to be cut soon.

She notices _him_ , and it’s not romantic or platonic. It just is. Just like them.

“Can I know what this expertise is?” Clarke smirks back, ready for the truth or a joke. On a day like today, no one ever quite knows with Bellamy which will come. “What are they doing wrong?”

“You really want to know?” he asks with mischief in his eyes. At her small nod, he closes the gap between them and whispers in her ear, “They haven’t asked Raven, you know, the only other person with a _bed_ in their tent besides me, for help.”

The answer is so Bellamy, king of delegating, that Clarke can’t help the sharp bark of laughter that escapes her.

His grin washes over her, and it’s too comfortable. It’s too nice. Earth isn’t nice. Earth isn’t peaceful. This Unity Day won’t last, and so Clarke rolls her eyes as Bellamy walks past her and yells after him, “you need a haircut, y’know!”

Bellamy turns and looks at her with knowing eyes. He keeps walking and she turns back to her chores for the day, but it’s enough for now.

 

***

 

The sky begins to darken when Jasper springs out the moonshine, and Murphy and his crew bring out the makeshift wooden drums and branches to hit against it. For the first time in a long time, everyone is smiling, and it’s a sight to behold.

The torches brighten up camp in the coming dusk.

Murphy beholds it with a quiet joy, and bangs against the drum with a branch. The sound isn’t wholly unpleasant, and soon others are joining him—some even perched by the side of the dropship, and clanging against the metal with a sharp _ping, ping_.

It’s chaos and beautiful, and _fuck, he’s happy._

He looks around camp, as he sways to the beat like a lunatic and magician. _Music_.

Across from him, he can see Bellamy and Clarke talking, _smiling_ in that small and strange way of theirs. Happiness doesn’t come easy to them, and he realizes that he’s in good company. _The best company_.

He closes his eyes, and lets the moonshine in his system and the blood pumping to the beat in his veins take him away. _Best Unity Day ever_.

“Have you seen Octavia?” Jaspers voice interrupts the deep peace that Murphy had found, putting a glare on the boy’s face. Jasper sees the glare, and backs up a bit. “Just askin’.”

“If she’s gotten fucking kidnapped _again_ , I swear I’m gonna tie her ass to the wall,” Murphy bangs the drum a tad bit too hard.

Just the thought of her sets his teeth grinding. He _knows_ she set that grounder loose, even if he can’t prove it. He knows she lied to Bellamy’s face, and that pisses him off on a whole other level. _Loyalty matters._

He knows his devotion to Bellamy is borderline obsessive, and probably unhealthy. Maybe it’s the fact that he cut the noose from around his neck. Perhaps it’s because he didn’t replace him with Miller after the hanging fiasco, and instead, somehow made them equals in different ways in this weird hierarchy that’s been silently established. Or it might just be that his father’s been dead so long, that when Bellamy pats him on the shoulder and says “good job” in that gruff and approving way of his, Murphy feels like a million dollars—feels like his father would be proud of him.

It doesn’t matter. Not really. All that matters is that he knows that Octavia isn’t as loyal to Bellamy as she should be, and it pisses him off.     

“If she got kidnapped again, it’s her own damn fault,” Jason, a random delinquent that Murphy barely knows cuts in. “How many times does a person have to get kidnapped before they learn _not to go outside the gate at night or by themselves_?”

His joke causes others around them to laugh. It’s a free laughter, and so contagious that Jasper laughs too and forgets all about not having seen Octavia. He forgets all about the girl who became his first kiss on the ground…ever, really. It had been chaste, but he’ll always remember how she had stared into his eyes— _bravery is always rewarded_. 

His chest aches a bit, but he doesn’t try to recall the sensation; she’s been so distant lately. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that more moonshine can cure almost anything…at least that’s what people always say. And so he walks away from Murphy, Jason, Sterling (who had appeared out of nowhere—he’s starting to think that’s a talent of his), and walks towards the metal bucket of moonshine by Clarke and Bellamy.

Clarke and Bellamy watch him smile lazily at them, and continue on his way like he hadn’t stumbled a bit. Clarke rolls her eyes, points an accusing finger at Bellamy (they’d somehow found their way back to each other once the party started in a poetic and annoying way), and says simply, “this is on you for giving them the go ahead, y’know. No one’s going to want to work tomorrow with a hangover.”

“Oh, they’ll work,” he smirks and takes a bite out of an apple. There’s a promise in his words that wash over her and keep her spellbound.

 It’s erotic and sensual and _whoever invented apples needs to be in prison_. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her silence, and his smirk widens in arrogance.  

“You shouldn’t grin so hard or you’ll choke,” Clarke rolls her eyes. She decides that she clearly needs more sleep.

“Don’t think that’s quite how that works, princess.”

“Well, what do you know?” But before he can respond, she changes the subject. “I heard the Exodus ship is coming down in a few days.”

“Yea…”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’ll do what we need to.”

“We can’t fight two wars, Bellamy,” Clarke shakes her head. She sees the argument coming a mile away, but she had already been gearing up for it. “I know you like to think you’re Superman, but the rest of us are human. We can’t fight on two different fronts. We can barely fight against the grounders.”

“Here we go,” Bellamy sighs in frustration and anger. She can’t even let him have this moment, tonight. It’s goddamn Unity Day, and no one has died or gotten any serious injury today. That’s a win in his book. “Look, I don’t want to fight two wars, but we can’t roll over and play dead either. If they don’t fly off the handle then everything should be fine, but if they try to _own_ us—well, then it’ll be what it’ll be. When they land, we’ll let them come find us and take it from there..”

“They might be injured, depending how rough the landing is,” Clarke lays a hand on his arm without thought. “They might need our help.”

“We didn’t have any help.”

“We’re better than them.”

She hasn’t moved her hand and he hasn’t shrugged her off. The heat from their bodies transform a bit, and Clarke can’t bear to look away, or look into his eyes, either. The air is too heavy; there’s _too much_ and _not enough_ being said in the silence, and all of it matters, but none of it matters. He can’t stand the rolling in his stomach, and he thinks that the apple might have gone bad in the few minutes since he’d plucked it.

That must be it. But then Clarke whispers, “ _you’re_ better than them,” and he wishes that he were as good as she thinks he is. He wishes…but _she forgave him_. She knows exactly who he is.

She knows, and he won’t make apologies for it, and stamps on the piece inside of himself that wants to be better, to be _good_. He doesn’t need to be good. Not anymore. Not for anyone. He just needs to protect his sister and his people; he knows that when the Exodus ship lands, he won’t let the Hundred go and check it out.

Clarke knows it, too. She sees the guilt and resignation swirling in his eyes, and knows she doesn’t have an argument that’ll sway him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever, because the safety and autonomy of their people has to always come first, now, and _she hates it when he’s right_.

She lets her hand drop. He lets himself breathe a bit deeper. _They_. Even when it sort of hurts.  

“Take a break, Princess. Have some fun. You’ve earned it.”

“Yea,” she turns and starts to walk away, but spins around to him last minute. “You do, too.”

Maybe one day they’ll both believe it.

 

***

 

When Finn approaches Clarke, she wants to run. She can’t hear a word that he’s saying because all she imagines is Raven’s lips on his, his words of passion in her ear, everything that doesn’t belong to her…everything that never rightfully belonged to her.

But then the world speeds up, and she can hear him clearly, too clearly next to him as it registers that he’s been in communication with grounders and have managed to ensure peace talks with them, but _“What?_ ”

“Clarke, you can’t tell Bellamy!” Finn demands. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them because he knows, _he knows_ , that Clarke hiding anything from Bellamy isn’t a reality. He gets it. Sort of. Sometimes. Not really, because it used to be them—Clarke and Finn—against Bellamy. It used to be Finn and Clarke against the world, and chaos, and everything Bellamy represents.

But somehow that changed. Maybe it was Raven. Maybe it was Bellamy. Or maybe it was time—the elusive bitch. Finn can’t pinpoint it, but somehow, it all changed, and now, _now_ he has to accept that he has to make demands that used to be second nature to both of them.

Or maybe it had all been in his head…but he remembers. Finn remembers how Clarke used to smile at him, coy and gentle. He remembers the feeling of her skin, and he can’t help but resent Raven a bit for coming to the ground.

She changed everything. Raven used to _be_ everything. But it’s Unity Day, and maybe there’s still hope because Clarke says, “Okay,” and Finn thinks that maybe everything can be okay.

He’ll bring her peace and she’ll love him for it. Yea, that’s it.

But he doesn’t see the deceit in her eyes, or the lies on her tongue for supplies as she charges through camp, almost frantic on the inside looking for Bellamy. Finn doesn’t see the way she beckons Bellamy with her eyes, and Bellamy responds in kind.

He doesn’t see because he doesn’t want to, and that’s okay, too. Ignorance is bliss, and on the ground, anything close to it is hard to hold—who can blame him for holding on too tight?

 

***

 

The air feels brisk as Bellamy stands guard with Raven, Jasper, and Murphy, hiding on the high ground as back up. He looks at Jasper and feels for him; there’s so much crushed hope on his face as he stares at Octavia and her Grounder. There’s too much sadness lining his face for Bellamy to stomach.

But all it does is incense Bellamy more because _she betrayed him—them_. She’s been betraying them all since the day she let the Grounder loose, and swore that it hadn’t been her.  Had it been worth it? Had betraying them been so easy? Is it somehow his fault?

Bellamy doesn’t have the answers, but he does know that he can’t bear to look at her—not now when the pain of her betrayal is so fresh. Not when she looks so content wrapped in the arms of their enemy. His sister. His baby sister who used to think that he could defeat all the monsters…it’s too much. _Too different._

And then he sees grounders. A whole flock of them—the leaders on horse back, and _over his goddamn body_ this is going to happen without him.

This entire meeting is a horrible idea, a terrible idea. Bellamy doesn’t even know how he let Clarke convince him this isn’t a trap in the making. _Fuck_!

He knows he should stay hidden, he knows. But, those grounders look too fierce, and Clarke is so small. He knows she can handle it—he wouldn’t have let this entire meeting happen otherwise. He knows that she can handle anything they throw at her but, _fuck_ , she looks so small and _good_ , and what if something goes wrong and he’s not fast enough. He can’t be so far away. He can’t.

“You got this?” he asks Murphy.

Murphy nods, but Bellamy can’t help but notice it’s a bit hesitant. Raven simply raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, _you’ve got to be joking_. Jasper keeps scanning the woods, and Bellamy _knows_ it’s a bad idea to leave them alone. Jasper shouldn’t even really have a gun; it’s still so soon after being speared, and this is really his first real outing.

But he sees Clarke walking up to someone. Sees the angry looks, and the fire inside of him twitches and stirs.

“Grounder Princess looks pissed,” Raven notes in that dry and sarcastic way of hers.

“Our Princess has that effect,” Bellamy smirks a bit proudly. _Don’t give an inch to those bastards_ , he thinks as he walks away.

He knows he needs to get this instinct, this _drive_ , to protect Clarke out of his system before it ruins him. He knows, but, not today.

He walks with the purpose and ease of a man who had been walking upon Earth all his life. And as assuredly as he walks, he sweeps past Octavia, Finn, and her Grounder, completely disregarding their gasps and calls for him to stop. Finn tries to catch up, but is stopped by Lincoln. Lincoln doesn’t want anything to get more out of control than it seems to have already gotten.   

Lincoln knew that it should have been _him_ , Bellamy, who had been informed of this meeting, but he remembers how quick the man took to the makeshift whip, and how harshly and swiftly he had punished him. Lincoln remembers thinking how kindred they were, and he had made a judgment call—this meeting isn’t about war, but peace, and he hadn’t been sure that Bellamy knew much about peace from his time watching them from afar.

From Octavia’s quick denial that _Bellamy will never go for this_ , he had surmised that she wasn’t sure how much her brother knew about peace, either. But watching as he walks up to Anya and Clarke, arrows quietly pointed at him in the shadows even if Bellamy doesn’t know it, his gun in clear view and position just as Anya’s guards with their swords,  he’s not so sure he had made the right call.

Perhaps peace needs Clarke’s diplomacy _and_ Bellamy’s fight.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Anya says harshly, hand poised on her belt, ready to fight.  

Clarke can barely breathe as she watches him sidle up next to her like he had always been there. Maybe he has. But, oh no. No. No. _No, Bellamy_. But Bellamy barely spares Clarke a glance.  

“I hope I’m not crashing the party,” Bellamy replies sarcastically. His eyes bore holes into her and _this_ was their leader.

Anya is no fool; she came with no illusions that this meeting would broker true peace, but Lincoln had pleaded, and Anya remembered when he was just a small child running behind Nyko with a sword he could barely pick up.

Lincoln has always been a gentle giant; a warrior with the heart of a healer, and so Anya saw no harm in this meeting. If war persisted, then they’d fight, and if _Skai kru_ begged for their miserable lives, then they _may_ spare them...or kill them all, because _blood must have blood_.    

“You are the one that tortured one of mine,” Anya tests him.

She had learned at a young age that this is what Earth is all about, a series of never ending tests. Unforgiving tests, because if you fail you die. But, Bellamy isn’t Clarke. He learned that lesson the day Octavia was born, and every day after that.

“And you’re the one that sent your soldiers out to be tortured,” he channels his signature ass-like quality. _Fuck them_. If they want peace then they’ll have peace, but he won’t beg for it. Not now, not ever.

Bellamy and Clarke both know that it’s his pride that won’t let him budge; it’s the reason why Clarke came to this meeting without him, and why he didn’t demand to be included, because they both knew that his pride ruled supreme. He was subject to his heart, and forever at its mercy.

“So, _you_ are the true leader of your people…or are you her second?”

“We lead together,” Bellamy says firmly.

He’s not here to hijack Clarke’s meeting or to bow down to some Grounder-one-leader-only propaganda. He’s here to make sure that these grounders understand that…well…he’s not sure why he’s here except that Clarke looked so small, so alone against this fierce warrior, and she’s his people. His people will never be alone as long as he’s breathing.   

“Lincoln says there are more of you coming,” Anya cuts to the chase—the _real_ reason she accepted this meeting.

If there were more of these trespassers coming, then she wanted to know about it. Bellamy sees this truth, and understands. _Fucking Spacewalker and his big mouth_.

Clarke looks at Bellamy, and unbidden, unquestioned, they understand that there’s no going back after this. They might have said that this was permanent, but saying it to the Hundred and legitimately breaking from the Ark are two different things.

But this is Clarke’s meet and greet. She’s the one who thinks peace is possible. She’s the one with a vision of hope. He just hadn’t wanted to be so far, _too far_ , just in case. So he stays quiet, and defers to her, the same way she had deferred to him in front of Jaha.

They lift each other up. _Together_.

“There are, but that’s not our concern,” Clarke says firmly. This is it. There’s no going back from it, now. “Our people are separate from them. If you want peace with them, we can arrange a meeting for you, but right now, our first priority is to end this war.”

“I understand,” Anya pursed her lips. She’s confident that _Tri kru_ could slaughter these people at a moment’s notice…though their weapons are worrisome. Too worrisome for her to overlook. But she won’t bow down. “You started a war that you don’t know how to end.”

“What? No!” Clarke vehemently denies. _Please, please want peace_.  She feels Bellamy shift slightly, their arms brush, and she draws strength from his heat. This is about peace, but this is about standing up for themselves, too. “We didn’t start anything. Your people attacked us for no reason.”

“You’re invaders!” Anya says severely. “Your ship landed on our territory.”

“We didn’t know anyone was here,” Clarke tries to explain but she can practically feel the situation slipping from her grasp. _This has to work. She has to understand_. “We thought the ground was uninhabited.”

“You knew we were here when you sent an armed raiding party to capture one of us, and torture him. These are all acts of war.”

Silence, because Clarke doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t know how to fix this without forsaking their pride.

So, without thought, she says, “I see your point.”

Bellamy’s eyes swivel to her as though she’s lost her mind, and maybe she has. Even Anya’s eyes widen at her declaration. But the fighting can’t go on. Not if they want to survive. She knows that Bellamy doesn’t quite see it, because he’s a fighter. He’ll fight until he physically can’t fight anymore, and that’s how he’s always survived, but that can’t be them. That can’t be them on Earth, the place for second chances.  

“I see your point,” she repeats, takes a breath, and continues with iron in her veins and steel in her voice. “That’s why we need to put an end to all of this. If we continue this, then the cycle will never end. _Please_.”

Bellamy hears the barely restrained desperation in Clarke’s voice, and he grips his gun tight. The look on Anya’s face says that she’s seconds away from agreeing, if only they could give those final words. He wants to help her, say something that’ll be _just right_ , but he’s a warrior. He’ll carry the weight of it all as long as he doesn’t have to give up his pride.

But Clarke looks at him, like she had looked at him the day they had tortured the Grounder and the day Charlotte confessed; it’s a plea and a prayer rolled into one infinite stare and he feels like he really is Superman and he can do anything. Or at the very least, he’ll die trying.

So, for Clarke, he’ll try his hand at peace.

“You spear one of ours, and we’ll shoot down two of yours,” he gives Anya the only truth he has to give. “But Clarke is right. That _will_ get us nowhere fast, because if you choose war, I’ll never stop fighting. We’re few, but we’re strong, and we’ll never run away. I don’t care how many villages full of innocents I slaughter. Because, for my people…for my people I’d let the world burn before seeing them bow down by force. But, through peace…through peace, right here, that I can handle. With peace, right here, right now, we can let the past go…or you can choose war, and we can all go up in a blaze of glory together. The choice is yours.”

The wind ruffles the trees. The dawn spreads across the sky like love on the wings of the heartbroken: a beautiful mess. The light catches the glint of sharp swords and even sharper guns. The world tilts and turns and spins, yet no one moves.

But maybe for peace, for hope, there needs to be more than _just_ words, and more than _just_ feelings. Perhaps a future needs the brain _and_ the heart, together. Clarke and Bellamy.

Anya sticks out her arm, and Clarke stands firm as she shakes her hand.  

No one notices that Murphy’s tackled Jasper to the ground before he could run off shooting at the grounders in the trees. No one hears Jasper groan frantically “why’d you stop me! They’re in the trees!” No one hears Murphy curse as he continues to hold him down, a little harder than necessary. But fuck it, he’s pissed that he’s practically babysitting instead of actually covering their leaders asses.

“They’re in the trees! They’re in the trees!” Jasper repeats it like a mantra, hyperventilating. He tries to bring Jasper back down from a near panic attack, “yea, and so are we. Take a fucking breath, dude!” No one notices that Raven keeps her gun trained on the grounders in the trees, now that she knows they’re there.

No one expects the shot that clips Bellamy’s shoulder with so much force that he falls. The air swooshes around him. His body vibrates with the impact of the cold, unbreakable, demanding Earth. His shoulder is on fire, and the pain is sharp and dull and everything that makes pain _agonizing_.  

Suddenly, the world is a blur of movement and screams and “your warriors have guns?” and “It’s the mountain men! Run!”

The world is a mixture of grays, blues, greens, and so much fucking blood. Blood and ashes, ashes and dust. _Earth_. But everything’s happening so fast, too fast, and Bellamy feels like he can’t catch up, though he’s running, and shooting into the trees, along with Jasper, Raven, and Murphy. _Shoot, shoot. Run, run. Never give up. Never._ But his body is slowing down. _Octavia? Is she okay? Be okay. Be okay._

The demand in his blood, the very instinct of which he lives by, demands that he search until he finds Octavia, but he can barely focus.

There’s a stitch in his side, and gravity is hitting him harder than usual—though they’re all still adjusting to the force of it. Clarke’s trying to compensate for it, but she can’t, and Murphy’s at his side whispering, “I got you. I got you,” over and over again as he takes him from Clarke.

Murphy can’t stop saying, “I got you,” because if he does, then he’ll have to face the fact that he _failed_ Bellamy. He was supposed to be on look-out, and instead he’d been preoccupied with goddamn Jasper and his mini meltdown.

The Earth is hard under his feet, and it’s unforgiving, but it keeps him grounded. It keeps him moving. He tries to keep Clarke in his line of sight too because, though he can’t stand her ninety percent of the time, she’s Bellamy’s _princess,_ and he can’t fail him with that, too. She’s also the only doctor they have—if they lose her they’ll lose Bellamy, and they can’t lose him. They can’t. Shit, they can’t lose either of them.

As Murphy finally sees the east side of the wall he hoists Bellamy up a bit, like one would a baby that’s on your hip and sliding down; he feels like he’s carrying the weight of the world instead of a barely conscious Bellamy.

Maybe this is the weight that Bellamy and Clarke carry all the time that they’re awake. Damn, _it’s heavy_. _Don’t die. Don’t die._

 

***

 

Clarke washes the blood off of her hands in the communal basin, watching as the light from the torches settles on camp. Her camp. _Their camp_. _Together_.

She scrubs and scrubs, but she can still see Bellamy’s blood sinking into her skin. She can still feel its warmth covering her. She can still feel the panic that had gripped her when she saw him on the ground. Gods, the _panic_. The _terror_.

She had felt consumed, until rage had gripped her— _grounders with guns?_ _Peace talks? Liars_. But then Anya had screamed something about Mountain Men and for everyone to run, and now Clarke has no idea what’s going on.

But she knows that Bellamy has to wake up. He has to. She can’t do this without him.

She shakes her hands dry, and walks into the dropship, where Bellamy lay, unconscious. She has no idea if he’s simply sleeping the pain away, or in a coma, or minutes away from death. There’s no way for Clarke to know definitively because playing at doctor isn’t the same as being a licensed one.

Clarke knows what she has to do. She knows, but it’s so hard. Almost too hard. But Bellamy can’t die. Not now, not ever. This could be a total overreaction on her part, or he could be asleep because something’s seriously wrong. There’s no way for her to know. So Clarke turns towards the communication system that’s set up and used to contact the ark, and sends the signal.

A few minutes pass, and finally, “ _Clarke?_ ”

“Hi mom.” Clarke had been praying for Jackson, but really, no one is better than Abby.

Her mother is head doctor for a reason. But all she can see as she looks upon the face of her mother are the eyes that had betrayed her father, and the lips that had lied when she had sworn to love and _honor_ him.

“How are you?” Abby looks at Clarke closely. She notices how tense Clarke looks, and how shallowly she’s breathing, but she knows she can’t rush her.

“This isn’t a social call,” Clarke says steely. She grinds her teeth for a moment, wrapped in the hands of anger and grief over her father, over Bellamy, over the damned Earth that takes, and takes, and never really gives much back.

“What’s wrong?” Abby senses Clarke’s need and tries to focus, though it’s tough when she hadn’t spoken to Clarke since she sent her down to Earth. So many had spoken to their children, and yet Abby had only heard from Raven that Clarke was okay. With this in mind, Abby knows that someone must be seriously hurt for Clarke to want to speak to her.  “What’s happened?”

“Bellamy’s been shot,” Clarke chokes out. Just saying the words makes her feel like the world is spinning. _Focus. Don’t lose control. Focus_. _It’s what Bellamy would want._ But Bellamy’s not awake. He’s not waking up, and she doesn’t know what else to do.

“Where?” Abby says warily.

“In the shoulder. I’ve taken the bullet out, cauterized the wound, and stitched it up,” Clarke tries to explain matter of factly. But her next words has her clenching her fists. “But he’s not waking up.”

“Was he awake when he was hit?”

“He fell unconscious on our way back to camp.”

“Back to camp? Wait—who shot him?” Abby’s trying valiantly to reconcile what she knows with the little pieces Clarke has given her but there’s so much missing. Too much.

“I don’t know!” Clarke snaps, and her control slips. For just a moment, she’s back in that bunker, warring with her demons, begging her father for forgiveness. Anger and misplaced grief mix together until it’s a ball of confusion and Clarke’s not sure what she feels or what she’s allowed to feel. “I don’t know, but he’s shot, and he’s not waking up and I need you to tell me what to do!”

“Clarke…” Abby doesn’t know what to say. She’s not sure what she can say. It sounds like Clarke has already done all that can be done. “If you’ve already gotten the bullet out successfully, and patched it up properly, then it sounds like the rest is up to him.”

“That’s not good enough!” Clarke growls. “He could be bleeding internally, he could’ve hit his head against the pavement when he fell and have a concussion, or a blood clot could be traveling to his heart in his sleep, or—Bellamy would _never_ leave it up to me. He’d _do something_. Make _sure_. Because that’s what he does. That’s what he does.”

Suddenly, the tears that hadn’t come when Atom, Wells, and Charlotte had died, or when Bellamy had been shot, came now. They came silently, and with impunity. But she won’t acknowledge them. She won’t submit to them. She can’t. She just _can’t_.

It doesn’t help that she’s strangely angry at Bellamy for getting shot in the first place. He’s _Bellamy_ , king of always coming out on top and relatively unscathed. He doesn’t get to be hurt like this. He just doesn’t.

“Oh honey…” Abby’s not sure what kind of comfort she can give her daughter.

She’s not even sure if she should because she’s not sure she wants Bellamy Blake to survive. Jaha had informed her and Kane of Bellamy’s position within the group—the power he holds over everyone, over Clarke.

But Clarke sees the indecision in her eyes, and pounces, delusionally convinced that Abby’s not helping because of this, instead of the truth that there’s nothing she can logically and realistically do.

“No, you don’t understand, mom,” Clarke tries to explain and plead, and _just don’t let him die_. _Anyone but him_. “If w-we’re hungry, then he goes out hunting. It doesn’t matter if he already went that morning, he’ll go again. And if we’re in danger then he’ll spend all n-night patrolling the wall. He tries to hide it, but when one of the younger ones have nightmares he’ll tell tons of stories about the Emperor Trajan or some other legendary person no one remembers but him until they can fall asleep. H-he—we _need_ him. We do. I swear it. We could _never_ do this without him. Just please don’t let him die. _Please._ ”

Clarke despairs, and in her despair she doesn’t realize she’s ranting, near sobbing, and begging Abby to save her partner. She doesn’t realize until she feels a hand on her shoulder and turns abruptly to see Raven, Finn, Octavia, and Murphy standing behind her.

She wants to be embarrassed, but she can’t find it in herself. Not when Bellamy’s still not awake. Not when she’s never felt so helpless.  

Octavia moves to sit by Bellamy’s feet, and gently touches his leg. There’s a guilt deep in her soul that she can’t quite shake because though she’s scared for her brother, she’s also scared for Lincoln that got hit with a stray arrow that had been launched in the direction of the shots. She’s guilty because Clarke’s desperate over her brother’s life more than her…and she’s ashamed that she can’t focus singularly on him anymore. Not anymore. Not since she’d given her heart away.

Finn sees Clarke’s tears and he hates, for just a moment. For one infinite moment he hates deeply, because he had given her peace. He had given her peace and she was going to love him for it. But peace has taken a back seat to Bellamy’s injury. Bellamy outshined his peace. Heck, he’s not sure there’s any peace left; once the shot had been fired both sides had gone after the other—arrows flying towards their way, and bullets from Murphy, Raven, and Jasper flying towards the grounders. He knows at least two grounders were hit by Jasper in the crossfire before Anya had yelled out “Mountain Men.”

He wants to pity Bellamy—the great rebel leader brought to his knees. He wants to worry after him, and some part of him does. But it’s overshadowed by the irrational pain he feels over knowing that Clarke never shed any tears like that over him. He had given her peace…but it might not be enough, and so he walks right out. He walks into the daybreak, drowning in the darkness of his own heart.   

Raven looks piteously between Abby and Clarke, understanding what Abby has just come to realize—Bellamy and Clarke are linked, intrinsically, eternally, indisputably, for better and for worse, till death do them part. She’s not sure if it’s hate, an austere passion for life, or a mixed longing to live and fight that connect them. But it just is. _Them_.

It’s annoying, awe-inspiring, and nerve grating all at the same time, but they are. It makes Raven sad to know that once Finn and her had been that connected, too. She hopes that maybe they could find that connection that they lost; maybe, if only, perhaps…somehow they’ll find it again. Raven has to hope, because hope is all that she has left. Hope and Finn.

“Is there hope?” Murphy asks quietly. There’s an edge to his voice that he can’t make disappear. It’s just not in him. It’s not who he is to play nice, not even when someone he cares for may lay dying. But he’s trying, he is. “I mean, he looks like he’s just sleeping it all off.”

Clarke looks at him and remembers a time when she had told Bellamy, _if I say there’s hope, then there’s hope_. The hatch had been open, and maybe Murphy had heard. Or maybe it’s simply a coincidence. Perhaps none of it matters at all if Bellamy doesn’t wake up.

“If the princess says there’s hope, then there’s hope,” Bellamy’s raspy voice cuts through the air like a knife.

Clarke leaps to her feet, and is at his side faster than lightning strikes the ground. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._ She silently hands him a cup of water for his throat, then a cup of seaweed tea with a heavy glare that says he better not even think of not drinking it.

She’s all sharp movements and tight jaw, but Bellamy can see beneath that. It’s enough, for now. It’s enough to know _she’s okay_ , and _they didn’t get her_.

Murphy slides down, a small smile playing on his lips, as he adjusts himself to keep vigil over his leader, and his friend.

Everyone forgets that the communication is still live, and that Abby can see and hear everything. She notices this, and decides to watch them in silence. Kane and Jaha walk into the room, and watch alongside her.

“How are you feeling?” Clarke tries to get into healer mode, but there’s a shake in her voice that’s unmistakable. _Get it together. He’s awake. He’s awake. That’s all that matters._ “Any dizziness or blurred vision? Does your chest feel tight at all?”

“I feel like I’ve been shot, otherwise I’m like a shiny new penny” Bellamy replies sardonically with a little twist of his mouth. “Did Jasper shoot me? Because I know he hadn’t had _that_ much to drink!”

Everyone lets out a little laugh and the tension slowly seeps out. Clearly he’s not dying if he’s still acting like a domineering jackass.

“No, Jasper didn’t shoot you,” Octavia smiles brightly at her brother. She smiles the way she used to smile at him, before they landed on Earth, and he can’t help but forgive her betrayal, if only for the moment. He had missed that smile. He had missed his sister—the sun in his sky. “Apparently, the _Mountain Men_ did.”

“Who the fuck are they?” Bellamy tries to lift himself up, and Clarke helps him slowly.

The contact settles him in the weird way that it sometimes electrifies him. But they’re all about contact. And he’d scared her. He can tell by the drying tear tracks on her face, and the way she refuses to look away, even for a moment. He _knows_ , and she’s not ashamed. Neither is he.  

He doesn’t have room to be since there’s been a steady stream of _she’s okay, she’s okay_ , running through his head since he first opened his eyes. It’s strange, and he doesn’t understand where this ridiculously sudden and incessant _need_ came from _._ He kind of hates her for making him worry, but he’s Bellamy Blake and he’ll roll with the punches until he’s knocked out. Or until Clarke learns to heal injuries that can’t be seen.  

“Your guess is as good as ours,” Raven leans against the hard bed, too tired and exhausted to do much else. “But you might reconsider the way we go about peace talks if they’re all gonna end in a Wild West shoot out.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Bellamy sighs hard. “Shit, shit, _shit_.”

He goes to raise his hand and run his fingers through his hair—a habit—but Clarke grabs his hand and pins it to the bed, seeing his intention before he can act. He looks at her confused, but she just looks at him and through the silence and air he understands. _His shoulder_. He can’t raise his arm without hurting himself. He nods slightly and she lets go, but the heat from her hand stays with him. It comforts him and wakes something up beneath his skin.

“Yea,” Murphy responds to Bellamy’s cursing fest. “Shit is about right. And you might want to know that peace probably isn’t really possible anymore—you know, if you give a crap about that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“You got shot, Bellamy,” Clarke plays interference before he can take someone’s head off. Forget the fact that he hadn’t believed peace was possible, or that he hadn’t wanted to let them go to this meeting. They’d settled on a deal. If there’s one thing Bellamy is and will always be, it’s a man of his word. “We thought the grounders had guns, too, for a moment back there. So our backup did what they were there to do.”

“They shot at the grounders,” Bellamy concluded grimly, but not upset which is all anyone truly cares about.

“Yea, and those fuckers shot right back,” Murphy raises his eyebrows. “Peace my ass.”

“We didn’t just shoot,” Raven smiles smugly. “We got them good. I know for a fact that we hit at least three or four of them.”  

Clarke rolls her eyes, and Bellamy can’t help the little smirk that plays along his lips. “So, let me get this straight: We made peace with one set of grounders, only to get attacked by these _Mountain Men_ , and now we might be at war with _both_?”

Everyone nods. Clarke, finally, feels like her heart isn’t going to explode. She’s slightly surprised that it had taken this long for her to truly calm down. It had taken Bellamy’s smirk to tell her that he is truly okay. Just a bullet to the shoulder. Just. _Never again_.

“Give us a minute, guys,” Bellamy says in a voice that brooks no argument. He doesn’t need to clarify. Everyone knows he means him and Clarke. It’s funny, that out of all the things that are uncertain on Earth, he and Clarke are one of the few constant.

Everyone leaves, patting him on the leg or shoulder. Octavia kisses him on the top of the head swiftly, like he used to do to her when she was little. It makes his chest ache and contract for a moment. He wants to hug her and shake her senseless. Guess that’s the true meaning of having a sister.

“This is gonna be a problem,” he swings his legs over and spreads them enough so that Clarke is skirting the line between standing between his legs and not. The heat between them rises, but this moment isn’t about that. Not really. Or maybe, they just can’t let it be about that because they’re _them_ , and they’re already too complicated, as is.  

“You could have died, Bellamy,” Clarke sidesteps one issue to fall into another. This matters, and they need to address it. If only once. “You could have died, and that’s not okay.”

He hears what she’s saying, and what she’s never said. They care. They care because they’re each other’s people, and because there’s heat and hope and faith and trust, and a little bit of distorted hate settled somewhere between them in the crevices of their linked selves.

“I know,” he whispers huskily. “I know, but I didn’t die. That matters more.”

“But you could,” she steps over the invisible line into the space between his legs. She steps and it’s like the world has stepped with her. The air feels heavy. “You could die one day, any day, and what then? It won’t ever be okay for you to die. Not ever.”

He lifts his good arm and settles his hand on the base of her neck. Not pulling, not pushing, just settled. He wants to ground her. “So could you, Clarke. So could you; that’s just the way things are on the ground. Every time we fight because you want to go to the river without guards, and sneak off anyway with Spacewalker—”

“I haven’t done that in weeks!”

“The _point_ is that you could die. I can die hunting, or in a trap, or by the acid fog, or eaten by the goddamn sea monster.”

“You really need to stop calling it that—it’s a sea snake, just, y’know, super-sized.” Bellamy gives her an unimpressed look, and Clarke is forced to focus on the point. “There are too many ways to die down here, aren’t there?”

“Yea, there are, but that doesn’t mean we ever have to be okay with it or get used to it.”

Silence settles over them like a cloak made of thorns—sharp, but still sheltering.

“You could have died,” Clarke repeats because she doesn’t know what else to say that’ll encompass everything she’s feeling and all that she’s ever felt. He nods, letting the touch of his hand on her neck say everything he needs to in response. She continues, “I don’t think I know how to do any of this without you.”

“Are you kidding me?” he smirks incredulously. “You spend ninety percent of the time telling me how wrong I am, and going _against_ everything I say.”

“That was before,” she contradicts him. Before. Before Charlotte, before Dax, before she chose him over three hundred lives on the ark.

“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you,” Bellamy’s smirk widens into a genuine laugh. She doesn’t _see_ , but he does. “The truth is that you never stopped, and neither did I. And that’s okay, too, Clarke. That’s okay because some shit changes, and some shit doesn’t. We work because that part of us, the part that always likes to think we know better than everyone else is still intact and so we challenge that part in each other. Fuck, if you ever listen to me, I think we’d _stop_ working.”

“I listen,” Clarke ruffles indignantly, but Bellamy’s hand is steady, keeping her stable and in place.

“See,” Bellamy grins slowly. “Even now you can’t let yourself simply agree, and I’m the injured party.”

The reminder that he’s hurt wipes any levity out of the conversation. She knows he’s right, and now she _sees_ , too.  

“I may disagree with you,” Clarke sighs. “But you’re here to disagree with. We might fight, but we eventually settle on something _together_. What happens if you die? Who am I supposed to disagree with then?”

It’s hard when, at the young age of twenty, Bellamy has to contemplate his own death. It’s harder when, just shy of eighteen, Clarke has to pose such a question.

Neither are strangers to death, the ark practically having a monopoly on the grim reaper, but this is still hard. Too hard.

“If I die,” Bellamy lets his hand travel the length of her neck to her shoulder and back again. It’s _so much more_. It’s kind of _everything_. “Then you can argue with Miller. He’s solid. Strong, and the people trust him. They’ll follow him. He’d be a good replacement.”

“But he’s not you.”

“No one’s me, princess,” Bellamy’s purposefully glib and arrogant, but it doesn’t do anything because his hand doesn’t stop moving, and their hearts don’t stop beating. Clarke blinks back the sudden urge to scream and kick and cry, but he sees it before it’s gone. “Don’t dwell on what we can’t change, Clarke. We can’t change the fact that either of us might die. This isn’t like the Ark. Death was a process up there. Something to be manipulated at the councils will. But for all their faults, death had a reason up there. Down here, it’s just a part of life—no rhyme or reason.”

“Sometimes,” Clarke lets her hand grasp onto his moving wrist for a moment. His hand settles again, letting the weight of her hand ground him. This is them, at their most bare. Zero pretenses. Zero masks. “I wish that we were still on the Ark. Days like today, I wish we were up there, our only worry trying not to piss off the council. But it feels like we didn’t start really living until we got down here.”

“We didn’t,” he agrees gruffly. Clarke’s eyes have never looked so blue and endless to Bellamy, and he can’t take their depth. Not now when they’re so close, and his chest feels so tight. It’s moments like these where he despises her, just for making him feel so strange. Instead, he lets his head fall, and he leans his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes, “our lives started the day we landed, and it’s our choice how we live it. It just so happens that we live it hard. We live life hard and, honestly, that’s the only way I’d rather have it, so don’t cry for me, Clarke, if I ever die the way I live life. I’ll _live and die by the gun and the knife_.”

“What about me?” Clarke jokes, but it falls flat.

“You’re the light, princess” Bellamy lifts his head, opens his eyes, and burns her with his gaze. “You’re not allowed to die the way people like me do.”

“I’ve killed, too. And I was right next to you when we put guns in the hands of those kids.”

“Yea, but you’re _good_. And, shit, even if you die by some grounders hand, you’ll die out of _goodness_. Don’t ask me how—you’ll probably die sacrificing yourself or something equally self-righteous and annoyingly sanctimonious.”

Clarke can’t help the breathy and light laughter that escapes her. It’s only a moment, but she feels lighter somehow. He does that to her, sometimes, calm the storm inside of her. Sometimes he creates the storm, but that’s kind of necessary, too. She never thanks him, though, and she never will. He does it because he can, and she lets him because he’s _Bellamy_.

“Will you cry if I do die that way instead of in a _blaze of glory_ ,” she teases him. She goes to step away, to let the space between them regain its balance, but his hand tightens on her neck and stops her.

“Oh, I’d do better than that,” Bellamy tries for lightheartedness, but his eyes are serious. “Don’t doubt it, princess. It’ll never be _okay_ for _you_ to die before _me_. And just for that damn injustice I’d make the world pay. _I’d make our enemies pay with fire and blood_.”

Neither notice that the feed from the Ark is cut abruptly, terror in the eyes of Jaha, Kane, and Abby.

“Focus on our people, and our enemy, right?”

He nods his acquiescence, remembering when he had said those same words to her, and lets her go. He watches as she goes back to tittering on the edge of _them_ , and the heat disperses, like a firecracker out of steam.

Clarke takes that moment to compose herself, back straight, eyes on him ( _always, always, always_ ), feet firmly planted and heart in a constant staccato of _alive, alive, alive._

But before they can refocus on the new problems, Miller yells for them. Clarke doesn’t bother to tell Bellamy to stay, since she knows he won’t listen.

They both walk out of the dropship, shoulders brushing, to notice everyone’s eyes on the sky. As the sun rises in the east, half of the sky is alighted by startling pinks and grays, while the other is still blanketed in starry night. They can all see a ball of fire, flashing across the darkness, awaiting to be illuminated.

“It’s the Exodus ship. Aren’t they too early?” Monty asks anyone that will answer.

“They weren’t supposed to launch for another two days,” Finn answers as he sidles up next to Raven. (He and Raven are the only two who keep in constant contact with the Ark). The air between them is tense, but no one cares to ask or comment about that. “Guess your mom is coming down early.”

“She’s not on it,” Clarke answers distractedly. _Something’s wrong_. “There’s no way she could have been in the command center talking to me if she was getting ready to launch.”

“It’s not slowing down,” someone says from the crowd. _No, it’s not_.

“Oh my god!” someone else says horrified. The horror spreads, until it settles in the bones of the Hundred, as a collective.

There’s an empty silence of disbelief as they all watch the Exodus ship plummet to its death. Bellamy lays a hand on her shoulder, in shared grief; they hadn’t wanted to be a part of the Ark, but they didn’t want them to die either.

Miller, in his infinite wisdom and infinite connectedness to his people, quietly says, “In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground _. May we meet again_.”

His voice is like an anchor; everyone bows their head, and whispers along with him, until the words sound like a hymn to death, and ode to sadness.

Bellamy doesn’t remove his hand while they pray, and Clarke doesn’t shrug him off. _They’re connected, too_ , and they’ve never been more thankful to have made it to ground safely.

_Alive_. _Together_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo? What do you guys think? I was watching By The Gun, and since there are so many Mafioso Bellamy fics out there, thought I’d tip my hat to them by using that epic line. On another note, I’ve agonized over the direction of this story SO MUCH. Like, I’ve had nights I’ve lain awake thinking about whether or not what I make happen in this chapter is a good idea, but I hope everyone thinks so. As you can see, though some things I change drastically in this chapter, some things will stay canon. Ugh, I’ll stop ranting, now. 
> 
> On a completely random note: I’ve opened up a tumblr account, same name as here, Fanfiction.net, and Youtube. Not quite sure what to do with it, really, but feel free to follow me!


	7. To Wish Impossible Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks!! Eek, so sad, I thought tonight was a new episode. On another note, I hope the wait for this chapter will have been well worth it—this chapter was seriously long, and nowhere near done, so it was decided to cut the chapter in half. On that note, last chapter was sooo grueling for me that I finally conceded defeat and decided to get myself a Beta.  
> So, a MASSIVE “thank you” to my Beta, AvengerGirl17, for bearing with me in these weeks and my struggles with this chapter/story. She’s truly magnificent!
> 
> Anywho, prepare yourselves folks—we’re going to kick this chapter off with a good old fashioned JRoth Bellarke scene! ;)

/ _When the silence isn’t quiet, and it feels like it’s getting hard to breathe_

_And I know you feel like dying, but I promise we’ll_

_Take the world to its feet and move mountains; we gonna walk it out,_

_And move mountains. And I’ll rise up, I’ll rise like the day._

_I’ll rise up, I’ll rise unafraid, I’ll rise up_

_And I’ll do it a thousand times again/_

\--Rise Up, Andra Day

 

Clarke loves the way the air feels right before daybreak. She loves the dew that hangs in the air, loves the feeling of rebirth—the sun rising from the ashes of the past like a Phoenix, brand new and shining.

She wakes early as often as she’s able, stepping from her tent at the cusp of dawn to witness the beauty of the sky painted in oranges and pinks. However, more often than not, exhaustion wins out. On those mornings she’s left with a strange sorrow, like she’s missed something important.

On the rare occasion that she does wake up in time, she always sees Bellamy. He’s usually on the edge of camp, taking in the stillness of it all at that hour. Today is no different, except she feels like _everything’s_ different from the last time they stood in silence, side by side, watching the sun rise.

“You should be in bed,” she admonishes him as she approaches slowly. He spares her a quick glance and an apathetic look that speaks volumes about his mood. She doesn’t care, and continues anyway. “It’s been _two_ days since you were shot. You need time to _heal_.”

“Psh,” Bellamy scoffs uncaringly. “Two days on the ground is _forever_ on the Ark. A week at the least.”

“You need to take care of yourself,” Clarke purses her lips in annoyance. “Getting shot in the shoulder is a big deal—you can get permanent nerve damage if you’re not careful. That affects the use of your arm, in case you weren’t aware.”

“Relax, Princess,” he rolls his eyes. “I’m not out gallivanting. I’m watching the sunrise, _peacefully_ …before you showed up.”

Her silence is her only response, and they both know that he has a point.

The sky looks like it’s on fire, and Clarke itches for her paints and easel. She remembers the first time she understood _color_ ; she had been twelve and her mother had let her try on a pair of emerald earrings that had been passed down to each Griffin woman. The way the green had shimmered, like it was alive, had moved her deeply. Everything, even colors, on the Ark are dull. Boring. Dead, in the absence of _something_ that the Earth has in abundance. But the emeralds that came from Earth, born from it, never lost their shine and gleam.

Earth, with its vibrant greens and blues, pinks and purples, reds and hope (if hope even has a color), has a _life_ all its own that never fails to astonish her.

The silence is comfortable, though the dampness in the air is filled with warmth. It’s going to be a humid day, and Clarke already knows that she’ll have to spend the day reminding people to make sure they hydrate.

“What are we going to do about the Grounders?” Clarke breaks the silence with business.

“Oh no,” Bellamy shakes his head, barely sparing her a glance. “We’re not doing this right now.”

“We need to talk about this!”

“Yea, and we will. Just not _now_ ,” he says exasperated. He wants this moment, he _needs_ this moment to not be about the Hundred, or their duties.

All of their responsibilities can come rushing back to them in ten minutes, when the camp has started to wake up, when they can’t hide from the world any longer; for right now, this single moment in a day, he wants it to be about something simpler. Maybe even something _more_.

Clarke understands this, she truly does, but they can’t hide forever, and Grounder retaliation could be coming any second for what happened at the bridge. She’s scared, though she’ll never admit it.

Instead, she glares at him. Glaring is better than fear. Anger is better than the weird ache in her stomach as she watches him marvel at the sky. He looks so young, so _alive_. Much softer than his normal edges.

“The Grounders don’t care about _now_ or _later_ ,” she says sharply. “For all we know they could be on their way right—”

“It’s my birthday,” he cuts her off, words soft.

“Oh.” Not very eloquent, but she’s not sure what else she’s supposed to say. “How old are you?”

“I’m officially twenty-one,” he smiles, but there’s something bitter about it. She can’t put her finger on it, but, frankly, if she bothered to ask, Bellamy wouldn’t be able to explain it either—the bitterness that gathers in the center of his chest at the thought.

“Guess you’re an old man,” Clarke jokes. Bellamy gives her a mock-horrified look that she can’t help but smile widely at. It feels nice, talking about something so simple and mundane.

“Oh yea,” Bellamy smiles that small smile of his that’s filled with mocking and mischief. “How old are you, _little girl_?”

“I turned eighteen a month ago, I’ll have you know,” Clarke pokes him in the stomach. The smile continues to play on her lips like a sprinkling of fairy dust.

“A regular _old timer_ , huh” Bellamy jokes. “Maybe I should start working on your wheelchair now. Today you’re eighteen, next thing you know you’re twenty-one and aren’t allowed out of bed without an escort anymore.”

“Don’t make me poke your shoulder,” Clarke threatens.

It’s normal, this kind of banter. Yet, it’s sort of different, too. There’s an easiness that had never been there before. But there’s also a new tension that lingers in the way they shift closer and then shift away—afraid to be apart, and afraid to be too close.

“None of that, now,” Bellamy tsks. “Wouldn’t want to ruin all your hard work, would you?”

Clarke doesn’t bother with a response, distracted by the shift of _closer_ again. Instead, she muses, “Can you believe we’ve been down here for two months already?”

“Two and half if you trust Laurel’s calendar,” Bellamy ponders right alongside her. “It feels like a lifetime, almost.”

“So much has happened,” Clarke agrees with him. The shift tries to pull her away, but Bellamy pierces her with his gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone it was your birthday?”

“Why didn’t you?”

Neither have a clear answer. Everything, even a birthday, is _hard_. But Bellamy wouldn’t really have it any other way. If Clarke is honest with herself, in moments like these, neither would she.         

His hand reaches out, and moves a golden lock of hair away from her face. His calloused thumb sweeps lightly over her cheek; she can’t look away, and he doesn’t know how to.

He just knows that it’s his birthday, today, and the sun with its reds, pinks, and baby blues, fall against Clarke’s skin like the shine of miracles. It’s his birthday, and maybe for an instant, it could be about _that_. Even if they never talk about it. Even if they never really understand it, either.

“We’re gonna be okay,” he whispers gruffly. The conviction in his voice leaves no room for doubt. _Maybe they will be okay, after all._

They shift _away_ again. The sudden heat rises and falls as they turn back to the sky in comfortable silence.

The wind presses against her back, but she doesn’t budge. She finally knows the color of hope—dark brown with flecks of gold—the exact color of Bellamy’s eyes at dawn.  

* * *

Sometimes in the drop ship, their make-shift med center, there’s a silence that hangs in the air and suffocates. It’s a quiet that’s too _clean_ to be on Earth. It almost feels like Clarke’s back on the Ark, interning with her mother. Almost.

Today isn’t one of those days.

“We need to throw a surprise birthday party for you and Bellamy,” Jasper says with a goofy smile as Clarke stitches up a cut on his arm.

She doesn’t ask where he got it because she’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually want to know. Frankly, she counts herself lucky that they get as little scrapes and bruises as they do considering they’re always experimenting and adventuring with different plants, and the wild.

“You know it doesn’t count as a surprise now that she knows, right?” Monty’s quirks his lips, as he stands there, hunched a bit. His presence is soothing, and Clarke feels herself softening towards the topic without wanting to.

“How did you even find it out it was his birthday?” Clarke sighs. She doesn’t really need to ask, however. Their camp is a cesspool of gossip, roots shooting out in every direction. 

 “Sterling was patrolling while you and Shooter were having your moment yesterday,” Raven makes her presence known, though it’s hard to forget that she’s there. Clarke can’t help the slight tension that settles on her shoulders when Raven walks into a room. Sometimes she can forget, but a lot of the time, she can’t. She wants to, she really does, but she _can’t_.

Neither can Raven, though she doesn’t quite know what it is she can’t forget; all she does know is that Finn doesn’t kiss her like he used to. Whereas before, his eyes would flutter between closed and slightly open, now he clenches them tight. He kisses her with his eyes shut so tightly that Raven can’t help but wonder if he’s wishing she were someone else.

She can’t help but question whether or not the someone he might be wishing for is a certain someone with blonde hair and baby blue eyes. A flare of jealousy tries to ensnare her, but she squashes it. She won’t let herself be ruled by her imagination.

But she’s not so sure she’s crazy, which is the problem. She sees the way Clarke tenses, and she tenses, too. Action, reaction. 

“It wasn’t a moment,” Clarke scowls at Raven. “And we have more pressing concerns than finding excuses to party and get drunk. Speaking of, where’s Octavia? I need to talk to her.”

“Where else would she be?” Jasper replies bitterly. It’s strange to see the happy-go-lucky one of the group with such a twisted mouth.

“Oh,” Clarke says lamely, letting his bitterness wash over her until she actually understands. The full meaning of his statement grips her and she feels a pang of sadness for him. “I’m sorry, Jasper.”

“Whatever,” he shrugs, but it’s clearly _not_ _whatever_. “So, how about that surprise party?”

He’s trying to distract himself, because it _does_ hurt. He knows, logically, that he and Octavia would never amount to much. In his head he knew, but his heart had refused to admit it. His heart had pined quietly for the girl who longed to soar above the clouds and dance among the stars; his heart had whispered to him of impossible things, and now that it’s been realized as impossible, he feels like a fool. He feels like a complete buffoon for ever allowing himself to believe.

It’s a unique pain that’s different from any other he’s ever felt. It isn’t like being cut, or speared because he would know. This pain is duller, more insistent. But damn it all to hell if he doesn’t feel a bit angry, too. He’s angry, ashamed, and hurt because she chose someone else—a _Grounder_. Octavia wants someone else more than she ever wanted him, and no, he’s not okay with that; he’ll never be okay with that.

He’ll never understand when it became okay for people to only love _slightly_ , like the way he thinks she probably loves him.

So he focuses on making his friends smile; he figures, maybe if he can make them happy then he’ll learn how to overcome the crushing ache in his chest, and be happy, too.

“Jasper…” Clarke doesn’t want to disappoint him, but they really can’t afford to be distracted.

Monty, excited by the thought of a party, sees the denial on Clarke’s lips before she can say anything, and decides to intercede. “Don’t you think you and Bellamy deserve to celebrate your birthdays? Plus, considering he had Octavia, I bet you Bellamy’s never even had a birthday party.”

He speaks softly, but that firm way of his that leaves no room for doubt that he means exactly what he says. It’s strange to hear Monty, who never has anything to say about Bellamy at all, except to call him a _self-serving power hungry jackass_ once upon a time, say something insightful and very _true_ about him. It’s not so much the sentiment, however, that strikes Clarke. _Don’t you think you and Bellamy deserve to celebrate your birthdays?_

Did they deserve it? _I’m a monster_ , he had said, and she remembered being so willing to accept that and forgive him because they are all monsters in their own way. _Are they deserving_? But who decides that? Who can answer that? Not Clarke. Not Jasper. But Monty, maybe Monty with his fiercely good nature and deep virtuousness can answer that.

“Do _you_ think we deserve it?” Clarke asks him honestly. _Say yes, say yes, say yes._

“Of course,” Monty looks at her strangely, as if she had two heads and three pairs of eyes. “I may not be crazy about some of the decisions you and Bellamy make, and I’m not the guy’s greatest fan, but everyone knows how much you both do for us. How much you guys put on the line for us. Why wouldn’t you two deserve it?”

The question is so sincere, so _Monty_ in its plainness, that Clarke can’t help but believe with him. It’s a spark of inspiration for _more_. More happiness, more moments, more _living_ instead of simply _surviving_.

“Yea, okay,” Clarke smiles lightly. Baby steps. “Guess we’re throwing a birthday bash, Grounder style.”

Everyone smiles, excitement swirling in their eyes. For a minute they all are one, one collective of understanding, and they all grasp that this party isn’t just about Bellamy and Clarke. This is about all of them.

This is about what _everyone_ deserves.

* * *

“I’m out of shirts,” Bellamy stomps into the med bay like he owns it. After having spent the day treating eight different people for the same problem, _lack of common sense while wielding a knife_ , Clarke’s out of her daily dose of patience.

“That sounds like a personal problem,” she clips out as she attempts to wash her hands in the tiny basin of water she keeps inside the dropship.

People always talk about how heroic it is to help others, but no one ever mentions how _bloody_ it is; no one ever talks about how much blood _stains_ or the hours of scrubbing if the stain is allowed to dry.

“That’s a _we_ problem because I can’t walk down to the river to clean my shirts _and_ help with building houses.”

“Since when are you on building duty?” She wants to tell him that he shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous with his arm, but it’s been almost two weeks, and frankly, they just couldn’t afford for him to be out of commission. Instead, she focuses on the more prudent question.

“I’m _me_ , Princess,” he glares right back. There’s too much fire inside him, today. Too much _everything_ , so he settles on the anger that’s always seconds away from the surface—a product of living an unfair life. “I’m on every damn duty in this place. What? You thought you and this goddamn med-bay makes sure the camp runs right?”

“Excuse the _hell out of you_!” she knocks the bowl of water half way across the room in her anger as she whirls around to face Bellamy. “If it weren’t for me more than half of this camp would be out of commission! What, you think people could work with gaping, oozing wounds? Think again.”                                                                                        

Her words are meant to cut, and cut they do. They slash and prick and _dig_ into that part of Bellamy that’s always gearing up for a fight. It’s the warrior in him that’s always waiting to be unleashed. Clarke sees that fire, and recognizes that they need this. Somehow, unreasonably and irrationally, _they need this_.

They’re always strung tight, like a wire about to snap. Miller’s seen it, knows it, so when he walks in two seconds before their explosion he decides not to add insult to injury, shaking his head with a sigh before leaving quietly lest he somehow gets caught in the middle.

This isn’t a strange occurrence between the co-leaders. On any given day any of the delinquents can find Clarke and Bellamy fighting like cats and dogs. However, over time they’ve learned which days bode well and which didn’t.

The last few days had been too good to last, so no one is surprised when Miller walks out of the dropship, whistles loudly for everyone’s attention, and simply says, “Bad day.” Everyone nods, understanding without needing an explanation, and continues about their business, heeding the warning to keep a low profile so that neither Bellamy’s nor Clarke’s attention is warranted.

Inside the dropship, Bellamy and Clarke are just getting started.

“The mighty Bellamy Blake! Oh what would we ever do without you!” Clarke yells sarcastically. “You, with your big damn feet—all you do is stomp around here all day!”

“Reality check, _Princess,”_ he sneers and says her nickname derisively, unlike the gruffly affectionate manner that she’s become accustomed to. “I’ve got big feet because I’ve got a big—”

“Oh, I _dare_ you to go there,” Clarke clenches her fists in clear warning.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. He wants to shake her, and crush her beneath the weight of his words. But this is Clarke, _Princess_ , and there’s too much there, too much history mixed with the silence for the feeling to last more than a moment. So, instead, he simply goes back to the beginning. “I’m outta shirts.”

“How do you even have more than one?” Clarke releases her anger with the same swiftness that she had latched onto it. He shrugs as though that’s an answer, and maybe, for Bellamy and Clarke it is. “Dammit, Bellamy! Fine. I need to get more seaweed, anyway.”

He doesn’t bother to say anything. In silence he hands her his shirt, and suddenly she realizes that he had walked into the drop-ship without one on. His skin is marred by tiny cuts here and there. These cuts remind Clarke that they’re not on the ark; the cuts are a testament to all that he’s done and all that he’s helped built.

His scars are a testament to the greatness of _him_ , and Clarke, in silence, stands in awe.

She shakes it off, content to revel in her misplaced anger. “I sent Octavia out to find out if we can negotiate another peace talk with Anya.” She rips it off like a band aid.

“I know.”

“How’d you know?”

“You and O aren’t exactly best friends,” he leans against the table, shoulders brushing against her. “When you talk people notice, and there’s no other _real_ reason why you would actively seek her out.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Clarke asks incredulously.

“Hell no,” he glares. “But she’d already left once I figured it out. Nothing to do about it but wait. But you know if something happens to her, you and me are gonna have problems.”

It’s an ominous promise. Valid, coming from a brother, but Clarke’s never had a brother. No one alive on the ark has, so she’s not quite willing to let it drop so easily.

“You realize that she sneaks out to see him anyway, all the time.” She notices his clenched jaw and can’t help the slight pleasure she feels. It’s petty, but it’s as real as anything else between them.

They’re ferocious, and desperate…and sometimes they’re petty, too.

“Her going out is her own fault,” he doesn’t blink and neither does she. “You _sending_ her out is yours.”

She nods because it’s true. She’ll give him that.

“You think we have a chance at peace after what happened?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. He wants peace, but he also wants war—if only war didn’t come with such a heavy price. If he could, he’d wage war all by himself. Bellamy Blake against an army; yea, he’d take those odds, but only because he’s that arrogant. “But peace won’t come cheap, not after that showdown.”

“But maybe if we explain what happened,” Clarke looks at him desperately; she pleads for his understanding, because if Bellamy can understand then maybe Anya will, too. “If we can explain then maybe she’ll see that it wasn’t anyone’s fault—”

“We injured, at the very _least_ , three of theirs,” Bellamy sighs. He wants to make her see with the point, and not the edge, but he doesn’t know _how_. He doesn’t even know _why_ he would want to try. She can take anything he throws at her. She’s strong. Strong like him. _They_. “Probably killed them, too, and we walked away with only me injured. They’re not likely to let that go; frankly, if it were the other way around we wouldn’t let that go, either.”

“You mean _you_ wouldn’t let that go,” Clarke pushes away from him and glares. The space between them feels like an ocean and a small puddle simultaneously.

“No, I wouldn’t.” He won’t apologize for protecting what’s his.

“That’s the problem!” Clarke explodes again, fury raging in her blood. “Don’t you see that _that’s_ the kind of attitude that’ll end with all of us dead!”

“What do you want, Clarke?” Bellamy explodes right along with her. The space disappears. He’s in her face. She’s in his. They’re yelling, but they’re really searching for something else; maybe answers, maybe the right questions. “You want to change human nature? You can’t! You fucking can’t, and I’m willing to do a lot, but even I can’t do that for you!”

“Screw you, Bellamy!” Clarke shoves him, but he doesn’t budge. She hadn’t honestly expected him to, either. “We can do better than our ancestors! If only people like _you_ would _try_!”

“Oh, I get it,” Bellamy sneers. She wants to push, well he can push harder with his words than her fists. “From Finn’s lips to your tongue, is that it? Just regurgitating Spacewalker’s pillow talk?”

In this moment, she hates him like she used to. Maybe Clarke never really stopped hating him, and that’s a whole other level of confusion, because _how_ can she need and trust him the way she does if she never stopped hating him? She doesn’t have the answer, but she doesn’t hide the question; Bellamy stares into her eyes, watching as a storm brews in her deep blue gaze, and wonders if he hates her too.

Answers elude them with the same harshness that they search for them. But somewhere within the disdain and loathing that churns in their hearts, a longing settles in their stomach for something _more_ , something _better_. It’s _too much_.

Maybe they hate each other sometimes, and, perhaps, sometimes, that’s okay. Hate, like love, can be freeing if they let it.

In this freedom, they find themselves and each other, _whatever the hell that means_ , but it’s no less true. 

“Interrupting something?” Octavia enters the dropship, sarcasm like a whip on her tongue.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Bellamy whirls around furiously.

“If you’re this pissed off, and I just walked in, then you already know,” Octavia snaps back. She’s sick and tired of being judged for not being as prejudiced as everyone else. Guess living under the floor most of her life stamped that out of her. “And instead of being mad, you should be _grateful_ that Lincoln’s willing to _listen_ and talk to his people after everything. He’s not the enemy.”  

“He’s not the enemy? You sure about that?” Bellamy questions with mock passivity.

Clarke tenses in response because Bellamy _never_ asks a question during an argument that he doesn’t already have the answer to. She knows, automatically, that whatever answer he holds in relation to Lincoln isn’t going to make anyone happy.

“No,” Octavia holds herself straight, head high. “He’s not.”

Pause. It’s pregnant with tension from all sides. But Bellamy’s filled with too much hostility and animosity regarding Grounders in general that he can’t see past it. All he sees is his baby sister, the _little girl he practically raised_ , running into the arms of their enemy as he puts his life on the line every day to help protect them all against _them!_

“Then who told the Grounder Princess about us torturing him?” Bellamy asks silkily. There’s a smugness attached to an imminent savagery that clings to his words. “Who beside your darling _Lincoln_ told his people that _I_ tortured him? What—gonna tell me now that he didn’t know they’d want retribution for that? Oh yea, he’s not the enemy, alright. Not _your_ enemy, maybe, but don’t _fucking stand there and tell me he’s not my enemy_.”

Tears spring to Octavia’s eyes, but _screw him, she’s not afraid_. She refuses to look away. She refuses to budge under the weight of his words; she’s survived worse.

“What did you expect him to do?” Octavia lashes out. “He may not be _our_ enemy, but he’s still loyal to his people, and by attacking him you attacked them! He had an obligation to tell them what happened, especially since he needed to go to a healer to be taken care of. At least he’s put that behind him. Better than you can say!”

Fury like he’s never known engulfs him, and he’s submerged completely. He goes to tell her how _ungrateful_ she is. He goes to tell her how much he’s sacrificed for her, to be repaid like _this_. He goes to tell her that and _so much more_ , but he feels the warmth of a hand on his arm.

This warmth brings him back from the brink of saying too many things that he’d never be able to take back. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

He turns. Clarke removes her hand from his arm, but her eyes speak volumes: _Relax_. _Remember that she’s fifteen and thinks she knows everything._

He nods slightly, and lets her take the reins. He’s too volatile today, too explosive.

“What did Lincoln say?” Clarke asks diplomatically, though her natural distaste for those who’ve hurt people she cares about can’t be masked completely. It’s in the set of her shoulders, and the slight twist of her lips. She’s sure that Lincoln isn’t a bad guy, but he’s not her concern or problem. Priorities.

“He said he’d talk to Anya,” Octavia crosses her arms defiantly. “But he can’t make any promises. Things have changed now, and they’ll want some kind of acknowledgement of what happened. Some type of justice.”

“Like what?” Clarke and Bellamy share a heavy look filled with worry and _fight_.

“I don’t know,” Octavia blushes. “He said ‘ _jus drein jus daun,’_ but then we sort of got distracted and I forgot to ask what that meant before I left.”

Clarke smirks at Octavia like the quintessential knowing mother. Bellamy rubs his face roughly, groans, and mumbles, “ _oh god_ ” like the typically scarred father. Octavia’s blush intensifies, but she smirks back at Clarke in false swagger and boldness, like the characteristically audacious teenager.

For a moment, everything feels okay again. _Right_. Like family. 

* * *

The hundred, after a few weeks on the ground, learned that Earth is unstable. Sometimes it likes to roar and rage with storms, other times it likes to burn with a scorching heat, and, every now and again, a bitter wind brushes through, reminding everyone that the strange, yet relatively warm, weather won’t last. Winter is coming.

 _Winter is coming_ , and with it the threat of freezing and dying because they don’t have adequate shelter or enough game saved up to last them through rough days.

But they still have about another month before it’s fully upon them, and so Bellamy hunts. Bellamy hunts more than ever, like clockwork—at daybreak and again an hour or two before sunset.

This commitment to habit is a source of comfort for many of the Hundred; as long as Bellamy’s doing something normal, then nothing’s wrong.

But for Monty, Jasper, and Raven, who are attempting to plan a surprise belated-birthday party for Bellamy and Clarke, his habit is a blessing it’s so fortuitous.

Every one of the hundred have been briefed that tonight’s the night, so they have to work doubly hard to get everything Bellamy expects done to actually get done while leaving time to set up for the party. People can be seen saying a quick _in peace may you leave this shore, in love may you find the next, please let everything go well_.

It’s an irrational fear, the dread that _something_ will go wrong. But it’s also an illogical hope that _everything_ will go well and according to plan.

The only certainty on the Earth is that _nothing ever goes according to plan_. Nothing.

It’s with this understanding that the hairs on the back of Murphy’s neck stand on edge all day, pessimist to the very end.

It’s with this knowledge that Clarke spends the day grinding her teeth, trying to avoid being a Debby downer with any anxious words.

It’s with this _knowing_ that Octavia walks into Lincoln’s cave, a tight smile on her lips. She looks at the muscles on his back, the way they ripple, and she feels vertigo assault her as if it were the first time.

Everything with Lincoln is always as though it were the first time. She can’t help but love him more for it. _Love_. Sometimes she wonders what she knows of it, but then he’ll kiss her, and her heart will feel like it’s exploding.

The train of thoughts lets her relax, and she feels the tension she’s carried all day with her vanish. It evaporates into the thin air. She lets herself believe, truly _believe_ , that today can be perfect. Nothing’s happened so far. She had watched all day as she sat, perched on a log, doing her small part, and mending clothes with their own thread. It had been tedious---it’s _always_ tedious, but it’s small compared to all the building, hunting, guarding, and latrine duty that everyone else partakes in.

Heck, Octavia doesn’t even spend most of her time in camp, too full of brimming freedom to let a little thing like rules and the camp wall stop her. She’ll never be caged again. Never again. And so, she had watched and waited—the impending doom in her heart so _sure_ that something would ruin today. But nothing happened.

The more she thinks about today, the more she believes as she watches Lincoln stretch and move, unaware of her presence yet, that everything will work in their favor tonight.

Bellamy had caught a few rabbits and a boar ( _ugh—she’s so over boar_ ) on his morning hunt. He’d even given her a light smile on his way into camp, and it’d felt nice, _normal_ , in a way few things do anymore. She’d watched as he had wiped his sweaty brow, and barked orders in that dominating voice that never fails to grate on her nerves. He had exchanged a few words with Clarke—a typical shouting match over something trivial where nothing was resolved, and yet, they both seemed more relaxed for it. Octavia will never understand their dynamic, but then again, she doesn’t need to.

Octavia knows that something passes through them. Something real. Maybe like her and Lincoln.

Miller hadn’t messed up the skinning of the boar, and Fox made sure to keep the fat for grease at a later date. The nerves on both end had been obvious as Miller had never skinned without Bellamy watching over him, and Fox had never gathered the fat from the boar skin without Clarke watching over her that she didn’t pierce the skin. But they both succeeded. They triumphed, and their smiles could have lit up the night sky.

Raven and Finn hadn’t argued, though they hadn’t spoken much either. It’s strange for Octavia to watch a relationship wither apart at the seams. But for all the unhappiness that shrouds their love, their love exists. Maybe different to what Raven and Finn are used to, but it’s still there. It’s in the way Finn walks over to her and makes sure that she’s eaten in her frenzy to make more bullets, and help with the house building project. It’s in the way Raven always looks for him when she walks out of her tent or the dropship.

Jordan ‘the tornado’ hadn’t broken or spilt anything important or dangerous. This in of itself was a massive sign that the day favors the delinquents; even Clarke and Bellamy had noticed, and had shared one of _those_ looks when people remarked on it. It’s one of the looks that no one knows what they’re saying to each other, and yet everyone can kind of guess.

Samantha, with her red hair and quick smile, hadn’t lain bed-ridden over her menstrual cycle, which is a vast improvement over last month. Her pains were strong, and came with all sorts of body aches, nausea, and diarrhea. The change from Space to Earth had hit all of the girls hard. Even so, Octavia had asked her how she was faring and the girl had simply shrugged and said, “gotta do what we gotta do, right?” It had been a nonchalant answer, but Octavia understood what she hadn’t said: women of Earth are _strong_. They had to be. So, Samantha would grin and bear it. She would grin and bear it because she didn’t want to be weak, none of them did.

Heck, even Murphy and Sterling hadn’t sent any asinine comments her way all day, though the dismissive looks and mild glares hadn’t stopped. But less is still better in this case. She would even take more, as long as a fight didn’t break out and count it as a win.

Strangely, there hadn’t been one fight in camp all day. Sure there had been disputes about Jared borrowing Harper’s knife without asking, and Jasper spilling moonshine on Connor who didn’t have time to go wash the smell out in the river today. Monroe had apparently found a blue _sponge-looking-thing_ that she offered to wash the shirt with, and had promised to get the smell out. She hadn’t known that the _sponge_ stained because she hadn’t tried it out before except for her hands, which were always dipped in something, whether blood or water. _That_ had been a whole other set of issues for camp dilemmas, but Clarke and Bellamy had stepped in before it had gotten out of hand. Clarke had offered up Bellamy’s extra shirt, and he had graciously (with a severe scowl) given it to Connor to end the dispute.

Nonetheless, no one had come to blows, and it had been a miracle in its own small and weird way. This is why, with everything that’s gone _right_ today, Octavia allows herself the tiny reprieve from apprehension. She lets the smile on her face grow. She lets the sensation in her belly at the sight of Lincoln grow, until she feels reborn.

Octavia feels reborn, like the day she stepped off the dropship and realized that she _exists_. For the first time in her life she exists, not as a number—the _second_ unlawful child, or as a burden—Bellamy’s dirty little secret that must be protected at all costs, even his soul, but as a person.

Sometimes, in Lincoln’s arms, she dreams of what it might have been like to grow up Trikru like him. Wondering if she would have learned to love him the same way, or if they would have been too different—her, a girl born with a heart of a warrior, while him, a boy born with the hands of healer.

It haunts her in the worst and best way. But to be reborn makes up for the questions that plague her of where her home truly lies.

To be reborn illuminates her, and she falls deeper in love with him every time. This time is no different, and she takes a step forward, letting her feet scuffle against the dirt floor. Octavia sighs in contentment, happy. She’s happy because everything’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

Lincoln stands, turns, faces her, but his face is too grave. His eyes are too somber. His words even worse.

All Octavia can think as he explains is _no, no, no._ He reaches out to her, to comfort her, to try to tell her that they’ll get through this because _not_ getting through this isn’t an option. But Octavia and her precarious nature has her running out of the cave before he can stop her.

She runs and jumps. She stumbles but doesn’t fall. _No, no, no_. All she knows is that she needs to get to camp. Clarke can fix this. Bellamy will have a plan. _They’ll know what to do_.

Her chest heaves as she sees the gate to the camp slightly open for late stragglers—mostly her. Her chest tightens in relief at the sight of camp. Home.

Her foot crashes into a root, and she goes tumbling down at the edge of the gate. She can see directly into camp, and she realizes in a detached sort of way that night has fallen and torches, more than usual, light up camp.

 _Get up. Get up._ But she can’t. All she can do is watch as she breathes. She feels like she’s back on the Ark, watching the world pass her by silently. Invisible. _Weak._ But _she’ll never be helpless again_. Never again.

Bellamy is being forced to dance to a beat while Murphy, ever the lover of music, bangs against a drum with his bare hands. He’s wearing his usual unamused look, but there’s a light in his eyes that dance in merriment.

Clarke is hooting uncharacteristically, enjoying Bellamy’s embarrassment. She has a cup of moonshine in her hands, though she’s clearly standing by the bucket of moonshine monitoring who’s had how many, and ensuring that no one gets drunk at this shindig.

Finn and Raven are twirling, and laughing. There’s a weightlessness that’s stolen into their beings, just for the night. It’s awkward, the adjustment, but also beautiful. There’s a grace and precision to their movements that speaks of two people who have known each other and their partners body well. They’re happy, and it’s a rarity that shines.

All the delinquents carry about in the center, joined, together, enjoying a sense of buoyancy and simple joy at the fact that everything went right for once. For once, everything went exactly according to plan.

But they don’t know. _They don’t know_ , and she’s so damn angry at them for their happiness that vertigo assaults her. _They don’t know_.  

Bellamy says something that Octavia can’t hear, but Clarke laughs and it sounds like bells. He smiles impishly, and continues to be lead around a circle as everyone jumps and swings to Murphy’s rag-tag beat.

Jasper throws an arm over Clarke’s shoulder, and whispers something that has her laughing even harder—maybe the product of too much moonshine on her own part, or the product of nothing going wrong for once.

Either way, he takes her moment of unawareness, in her bliss, to shove her in the circle. Bellamy latches on to her hand. A playful and revengeful glint sparks in his eyes, and though Clarke tries to get away, he refuses to let go.

Together they dance with their people.

The haze of anger inside of Octavia dissipates like early morning fog at the appearance of the sun—there one second, gone the next. She’s left feeling _everything else_. But she can feel their happiness like an electric shock.

Their happiness _zips_ and _zaps_ her. It clashes with the despair scratching at her heart. The weight of Lincoln’s words push against her—weighing on her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Clarke rolls her eyes, shrugs as though to say, _if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em_ , and, indeed, starts to join and dance in earnest. Bellamy watches her swing her hips and flip her hair like it’s the end of the world…or the beginning of it, and smiles.

He smiles, no irony or sarcasm. He smiles, no mischief or mocking. He smiles, enraptured at the beauty of music and hope. He _smiles_.

He smiles, and it’s one of the most beautiful things Octavia’s ever seen on Earth, or anywhere else—her brother with his people.

The tears that hadn’t come since she saw Atom’s body finally, _finally_ pool in Octavia’s eyes. _Breathe_.

She can’t understand _why_ , but this is all _too much_.  

Watching Bellamy breaks something inside of her that had been gripping at resentment for so long; all the resentment and bitterness that had crashed into her over the years fall with a single tear, and she is reborn, again. But this time, her rebirth has nothing to do with Lincoln, and everything to do with her brother, her _family_.

In her epiphany, someone notices her and stops dancing. One by one everyone stops, until Bellamy and Clarke stop, too, turning to see what everyone’s staring at.

Bellamy sees someone at the edge of camp, and automatically reaches for a gun that he doesn’t have strapped to him. None of the guards were actually on duty, because of the party. He curses, but Clarke stops him with a subtle shake of her head.

She steps forward, but Bellamy grabs her arm and gives her a grave look. Someone closer to the gate whispers Octavia’s name, and suddenly Bellamy’s shooting past Clarke, and throws himself on the ground.

Every instinct he’s ever had screams at him; he searches her for any wounds, but he doesn’t see any. He can’t see much in the shadows, and curses again. Fear grips his chest, little by little. He can’t think. He can’t think. What should he do? What should he do?

But Clarke is at his elbow and whispers, “let’s get her inside.”

Octavia wants to tell him that she can walk on her own. She wants to bare her teeth at him and hiss that she’s not a baby, but _fuck_ , she feels like she’s unraveling. Not this. Anything but _this_.  

Bellamy nods tersely, refocused. He hauls her up, and she goes silently, fighting with all her might to keep more tears from spilling over her eyes one by one as he sets her down on a log at the center of what was only a few moments ago a party. It’s strange for everyone to see. Octavia with her loud opinions and devil-may-care attitude for any rule set by Bellamy, _crying_?

She sees their stares and lifts her chin in defiance. She’s stronger than this. She knows she is. _Keep it together_. But the tears don’t stop, and she can’t control them. _Screw you, I’m not afraid_! She doesn’t even know why she’s crying, and the more tears she feels on her cheek the angrier she gets!

She had never looked more her age than at this moment, trying desperately not to cry. She’s only _fifteen_. Only fifteen. Even Murphy feels a pang of sympathy for the headstrong girl who clearly refuses to just _let go_.

“O,” Bellamy tries to catch her eyes. “What’s wrong? What happened? Was it the Grounder? Did he do something?”

He throws the only thing that he can think of out there. He’s not a fool, and her disappearance hadn’t gone unnoticed by him; he knows exactly where she had been tonight. It had hurt slightly that she hadn’t been there for the big _aha_ moment, but he figured she’d show up sooner or later. Show up, but not like this.

She wants to let all the answers spill forth, but she’s too afraid of her own emotions choking her. Suddenly, it all feels like she’s back in the Ark, under the floor, trying _so hard_ not to be afraid of the dark. She grinds her teeth. _Breathe. Focus._ Inhale. Exhale.

“Octavia,” Clarke sits next to her, and rubs her back the way she would with distraught patients. “You have to tell us what’s wrong, okay? If you don’t tell us, we can’t fix it.”

Her words, all logic, compounded by Bellamy’s eyes, all heart, remind her that this is the fearless leader and his Princess. They can do anything. Yea, that’s it. They’ll fix this. It’s what they do, right?

“Lincoln heard back from Anya,” Octavia says hoarsely, throat dry from crying and running so long and hard.

She refuses to wipe the tears away. To wipe them away would be to acknowledge that they are there. That’s a hurdle she’ll brave later when she’s alone.  

“It’s okay,” Bellamy tries to encourage her, though he can’t help when his eyes swiftly glance at Clarke. She stares back at him, and together they understand. They _know_ that whatever had brought Octavia to her knees in tears would be _bad_. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

“They want retribution,” Octavia finally lets the words she heard sink in. It turns her constant _no, no, no_ , into a burning rage. _Never!_ “ _Jus drein jus daun_ means ‘blood must have blood.’ They want our blood for the people who died at the bridge.”

Her words are harsh, but not wholly unexpected, so Bellamy and Clarke simply try to console her. Everyone else looks worried, but nothing out of the realm of normal for a day on Earth. The rage bubbles and Octavia explodes.

“No! You don’t get it! They don’t just want _us_. They want Bellamy. They want _his_ blood.”

“What?” Clarke can’t breathe, but she has to. _Focus_. Breathe. “What do you mean, Octavia?”

No one speaks or interrupts. No one bothers to help with the questioning. Everything feels too still, like the Earth has fallen out of orbit of the Sun for a moment. Not Bellamy. Not their fearless leader.

“Anya sent a message through Lincoln,” she says, but the fear and desperation inside of her permeate the air. She’s never been without Bellamy. Just the thought—she can’t accept it. Instead, she does what Blake’s do: soldiers on. “She says that she understands that the situation was a confusing one, but that _blood must have blood_ , and so to stop a war she’ll accept Bellamy’s life as payment.”

 _Bellamy’s life as payment_.

All everyone had wanted was to celebrate Clarke and Bellamy’s birthday; they wanted a reason to be merry without any obstructions. That’s all they wanted.  They all knew the Earth would pay them back for such a good day. Nothing _ever_ goes as planned on the Earth.   

It had been an irrational fear, the dread that _something_ will go wrong. But it had also been an illogical hope that _everything_ will go well and according to plan.

The only certainty on the Earth is that _nothing ever goes according to plan_. Nothing.

It’s with this understanding that the hairs on the back of Murphy’s neck had stood on edge all day, pessimist to the very end.

It’s with this knowledge that Clarke had spent the day grinding her teeth, trying to avoid being a Debby downer with any anxious words.

It’s with this _knowing_ that Octavia had walked into Lincoln’s cave, a tight smile on her lips.

They had been right.

They had been _right_ , and _Bellamy’s life is the price._                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you guys think? Don’t shoot me for the cliffhanger!! Bright side, the next chapter is already in the works so it should hopefully be out soon. Also, for all you canon heads who may think this has gone completely AU, I assure you it has not. We’re just taking the scenic route in meshing canon and my AU world so as to make sure it makes perfect sense and isn’t rushed…at least I hope it does and will make sense to all of you. :)
> 
> On another note, what do you guys think about Octavia’s characterization? I tried to keep her in character, but I may or may not have succeeded. :/ *anxious look*


	8. The Conditions of Fear and Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! So excited for tonight’s episode of The 100 I can barely sit still! Am I the only one? Anywho, this is by far the longest chapter I think I’ve ever written! Prepare yourselves, folks. This is going to be a bumpy ride, but hopefully well worth it! :)
> 
> To my great beta, Avengergirl17, a massive thanks for helping this chapter shape into what it is! :D

_/Looking at you right now, there ain't never been no doubt, without you I'd be nothing._

_So if you ever worry about me walking out, yeah, let me tell you something: I hold on. I hold on._

_Can you hear me, baby? I hold on. Yea, I hold on. To the things I believe in:_

_My faith, your love, our freedom._

_To the things I can count on to keep me going strong, yeah, I hold on/_

\--I Hold On, Angie Keilhauer

Chapter 8 – The Conditions of Fear and Love

There are many different types of love in the world; the love of a sibling, warm and sheltering, is all about acceptance and protection.

“Guess the party’s over,” Murphy mutters, but his voice carries in the overwhelming silence. Monty murmurs “dick” as a response, but it lacks any real anger. They’re all used to Murphy and his wildly inappropriate comments.

“Alright,” Bellamy sighs heavily. “People—”

“You’re not turning yourself in,” Clarke interrupts him sharply.

 “I don’t take orders from you, Princess,” Bellamy snarls. The moonshine, which had lifted them on clouds made of music and laughter, now submerges them in the throes of anger and barely concealed despair.

He honestly hadn’t thought to, but her demand makes him grind his teeth together. 

Their gazes collide—full and filled with wanting for all the things that’ll never be. It’s not about _that_ , but it could be. It could have so easily been about _that_ after his fingers had brushed her cheek and she had stepped into his warmth, but that feels like a lifetime ago. It could’ve, but it’s not.

“This isn’t about your ego!” Clarke shoots right back because they don’t care who’s watching. This isn’t about the hundred. Not this. This is about what they’re willing to sacrifice. “You don’t get to give yourself up like some kind of saint!”

“Oh, give me a break,” Bellamy scoffs. “You really want to take the crazy horse ride right now?”

“Crazy horse?” Miller asks no one and everyone.

Murphy, unable to keep the answer to himself says loud enough that everyone near them can hear, “It’s when the _Princess_ goes left field in an argument. You know, when they’re arguing about one thing then she’ll pull out something that has nothing to do with anything and he loses her.” He smirks, approval and mocking swirling in his eyes. “It’s pretty fucking effective, too. Jessica has her at five to seven winning the argument when she pulls that stunt.”

His words break the tension that had risen with the delinquents. Something about Murphy being _typical Murphy_ soothes the anxiety that had begun to spin out of control when Octavia had broken the horrible news.

Small chuckles fill the area, despite Clarke and Bellamy’s argument. The delinquents easily ignore them, too used to their bouts of fury with each other. Miller motions to some of the guys, and suddenly, without anyone discussing it, people are strapped and manning the wall, their cups of moonshine in their hands, as others move over to other logs to continue their conversations, leaving Clarke, Bellamy, Octavia, alone.   

Raven hesitates. She wants to give them their privacy, too, but Finn doesn’t budge and she’s not quite sure what to do. It’s a weird feeling, not knowing, when being decisive is a skill she’s perfected. Raven Reyes is never unsure. Raven Reyes is never hesitant. Raven Reyes is never irresolute. But she is. She is right now.

Looking from Finn to Clarke she is uncertain; this uncertainty stains something in her very soul, and she loathes herself. She loathes herself for changing from whom she’s always been. She loathes Finn for being the cause. She loathes Clarke especially for changing Finn.

She looks away, though she doesn’t move. It’s the only compromise she has to give.

Finn, completely unaware of Raven’s turmoil, stands immobile. He truly doesn’t know what he feels—he’s hated Bellamy for so long. He resents Bellamy and the place he’s taken in Clarke’s life, but…through the disdain and hate, the animosity and disgust, that’s his _brother_. _Brother in arms_.

Come what may, they are each other’s people, and he’ll always remember how Bellamy tortured Lincoln in his name. Finn, regardless of how much he despises the _fearless leader persona_ , despite how insufferable he finds Bellamy, that’s his _brother, and damn it, he can’t die. He just can’t._

But there’s not much that Finn can do except stand there and watch as Bellamy and Clarke stand apart, but together in a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be okay with or ever be able to compete with. It hurts, that kind of sudden knowledge.

It hits like a sledgehammer, and his gaze swivels to Raven. He watches her profile for a second and remembers how strong she is. He remembers how she punched little Cathy for making fun of him when they were young.

He remembers how fierce she had looked, way back when—there had never been anyone more strong and beautiful.

He had loved her that day, in the simple and innocent way that children love wholeheartedly and without complications. As they had grown, that loved changed, adjusted with them. But now, as he notices her stare longingly into the ground, he loves her again as he once did.

Finn loves her as the lover she used to be to him, the sister she had not stopped being, and it’s never been more complicated.

But he can’t focus on that and so he steps into the fray like the lion he is at heart. “Can you guys just stop for a second!”

Clarke and Bellamy, startled, look away from each other, their frustration on display. They’re bare for Finn and anyone else to see.

No one says anything. Finn can’t stand the silence and uncertainty.

“Are you giving yourself up?” he asks Bellamy directly.

“Yes,” Bellamy answers with no hesitation. But his brain has already started a constant _don’t wanna die, don’t wanna die. Run. Go. Leave. Don’t wanna die._ He ignores it. Well, he tries to.

“No, he’s not,” Clarke contradicts him. He sighs harshly because it feels like they’re right back where they started only moments ago.

“This is what you wanted!” Bellamy points his finger accusingly at her. His eyes speak of words that have never been said and words that’ll never be spoken. Clarke flushes in anger and vexation in response to the cataclysm that they are. Bellamy sees it, but he could care less. Not when the stakes are this high. “You want peace, _this is the cost_. Peace isn’t free. It’s never been free, even on the Ark, and it sure as hell isn’t free here on the ground. This is what you wanted.”   

“Not this way!”

“What other way did you expect? Better my life than _all_ of our lives.”

“Why are you so willing to give yourself up,” Clarke shouts at him, and a hush falls over their audience. Her voice is hoarse from too much moonshine and too much emotion. “Why are you so willing to bleed for us?”

He wants to tell her that he can’t handle any more deaths on his conscience. He wants to tell her that sometimes, in his nightmares, he sees the face of all those that they’ve lost, and all those that they’ve yet to lose, but he knows in his heart of hearts that they _will_ lose because he doesn’t think they’re strong enough to survive—people like Samantha with her fragile hands, Eric with his constant cough, Jeremy with his bum leg—crushed by the weight of a falling log the first week, Isaac who’s scared of his own shadow, Carla who refuses to use the latrine more than once a day because they have to wipe themselves with leaves, Peter who’s careless in everything, and Tatiana who refuses to leave camp because she’s so terrified of the world around her.

They’re not strong enough, and he knows that’ll be the death of them eventually. He knows because Earth is only for the resilient and the strong. There’s _never_ any room for weakness.

Bellamy wants to tell her that it’s easier to imagine dying for them than being the reason any of them die. He wants to shake her until she can read his mind and be able to tell him why he’s so willing. He wants her to understand all the reasons that exist and all the reasons that he wished did exist, but don’t. He wishes and wishes, but nothing comes to him.

Nothing comes, except Raven who steps forward. “He’s willing to bleed for us because that’s what soldiers do. They fight until they can’t fight anymore, and bleed until they have nothing left to give.”

Her brown eyes see into him, and together they understand what can never be said, but they feel it like they’ve never felt anything before – the honesty in sacrifice. If there’s ever been anything Raven Reyes understands, it’s sacrifice. The sacrifice Finn made for her once upon a time, taking her spot in the Skybox, and the sacrifice she made for him when she launched herself into space, willing to die for the mere thought of reaching him.   

However, sacrificing Bellamy isn’t something Clarke and Octavia are willing to allow. It’s not an option. It can’t be.

“Just,” Clarke grits out, begging Bellamy with her eyes _not to do this_. “Just wait. We can send a message through Lincoln. I can meet with Anya, talk to her. Just—just _let me try_. There _has to be another way_.”

Bellamy looks around him. Everyone is watching him, waiting. The Hundred, in their silence, plead for their brother. They plead for his understanding that _they’re not ready to do this without him_.

He nods curtly.

All the reasons he had a moment ago fall to the wayside in the face of such commitment, fidelity, and loyalty to him.

Bellamy Blake, the man who can move a crowd with his words, stands in front of the Hundred as a boy, speechless. Speechless because he knows their fidelity won’t count for much when Clarke meets with Anya, and nothing changes.

_Run. Go. Leave. Don’t wanna die._ He mutes the scared voice in his head and heart.

He resigns himself, in this moment, to his inevitable death.

Clarke doesn’t revel in her achievement or see his resignation. Instead, she looks at Octavia. Octavia looks at her. In silence all of the fire, freedom, and _fight_ rise to the surface in their eyes; they say all that needs to be said: _over their damn dead bodies—and if they need to beg, plead, cry, or fight and kill and die for him then the Grounders better prepare for a war._

Because giving up one of their own, giving up _Bellamy_ , isn’t an option _. Not ever._

 

***

 

There’s a quiet in the air of camp that feels oppressive, but no one can shake it. Today, without warning, Clarke had snuck out of camp with Murphy, Octavia, and Miller to meet with Anya.

It’s been two days since Octavia had told everyone of Anya’s ultimatum, and they’d heard back from Lincoln last night. Clarke had claimed a headache, said they’d talk about the situation in the morning, and had feigned sleep until she could speak with Miller, Murphy, and Octavia without prying eyes.

Giving up Bellamy isn’t an option, not to her, and so she had wanted to be prepared for anything—for coming to new terms or an all-out Wild West reenactment if Anya couldn’t be swayed. Either way, she wanted people that would be willing to die for Bellamy if push came to shove.

Bellamy didn’t need to be told any of this when he awoke to the silence, Miller, Murphy, Octavia, and Clarke missing. He knew what had happened, just by their absence. He knew what Clarke had planned by the people she took with her.

He knew because he knew _her_. Everyone else knew because Sara had overheard Bellamy and Raven talking about the situation when she was searching for Monty for help with finding plants that could be used for pain relief. Monty had promised a few girls that he would look into it, and he truly means to, but it keeps slipping from his mind since he’s not the one fighting cramps in the middle of the day or night.  

As with all things typical of the Hundred, Sara told Catherine who told Mark who told Jordan who told Jasper who told Megan who told Connor who told Harper who told Logan who somehow is the biggest gossip and unanimously well-liked of the group so by the end of the hour _everyone_ knew.

Tense doesn’t even begin to describe the morning in camp. Bellamy’s glares burn without meaning to, and Jordan “the tornado” is more clumsy than usual in response. This means that even simple tasks take extra-long. Finally, Raven takes pity on everyone and simply sends him to latrine duty, where the only person who could really suffer from his clumsiness was himself.

That is, until somehow, he had managed to dump a bucket of fresh water into one of the dug holes. Suffice it to say that Bellamy would have torn his head off if Raven and Harper hadn’t been there to smooth things over. Raven with her sharp wit and logic, and Harper with her common sense in sending for either Catherine or Ariadne (who everyone knows sleeps with Bellamy on a regular basis), were able to contain the situation…but by midday, no one had been spared from Bellamy’s wrath.

It had been, all in all, the loudest quietest day the Hundred had ever seen.

Finally, as the working day comes to a close, Clarke walks into camp with an overly somber look, and everyone knows, they just _know_ , that she brings bad news.

Bellamy sees her from across camp. He notices the stiffness of her gait, the way her eyes shift from side to side; his heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.

He knows, just like everyone else that she brings bad news. _She failed_ , and Bellamy’s ashamed at the thought. He’s ashamed at his own selfishness, because even though he had been willing to sacrifice himself for his people…he hadn’t really _wanted_ to.

Against all logic, despite all of his fury, Bellamy had honestly believed that she’d do it. She’s Clarke pain-in-the-ass-doesn’t-take-no-for-an-answer Griffin.

Somewhere between catching her as she fell into a Grounder trap and arguing with her over everyday things like hunting more deer over boar, he had sprouted this unfathomable faith in her.

He turns away from her, eyes burning with sudden despair. It can’t end like this. It just can’t. It’s too real now. There’s no out. It’s either him or them. _Run. Run._

But he’ll never run. Not ever. Not even if the sky falls down around him, and so he turns back. He waits for his judgement.

Clarke sees the disappointment in his eyes and wants to tell him that she hadn’t lost. She hadn’t. She hadn’t won either, but small favors.

“What’s the verdict?” he tries for nonchalant but he doesn’t want to die. The stars forgive him, he didn’t want to die, not even for them. _Please. Please. Don’t let it end like this._

“I talked her down some,” Clarke bites her lower lip in anxiety, but Bellamy can’t bother himself to notice how nervous she seems.

A relief so strong hits him and nearly brings him to his knees. The mighty Bellamy Blake, kneeled by his acute sense of mortality and gratefulness. Nothing else Clarke says can change the fact that he’s not going to die. At least not today. Anything else he can handle. He can.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m glad to hear you say that,” Bellamy runs his hands through his hair to keep anyone from noticing how much they’re shaking.

“Don’t jump for joy just yet,” Murphy sidles up to them, lips pursed in worry.

Bellamy only raises an eyebrow in response. Frankly, it doesn’t matter how bad it is, because _nothing_ is worse than death. Nothing. At least he’ll be able to live to fight another day. Fighting another day matters to him. _Fighting another day_ is who he is. It’s all he is, he thinks.

“Lashes,” Clarke whispers. She can’t find it in herself to speak loudly, or even look him in the eye, but she refuses to be weak in front of him—not now. So she stares over his right shoulder, and continues. “I—I talked her down—”

The words won’t come. She feels like she’s choking on reality. It’s _always_ too much. Bellamy senses this, hears how hard it is for her, and moves closer. This isn’t like the shift _away_ and _closer_ that had been following them for the past week since _that_ day. No, this is the gravity of their souls, so much alike and so different, pulling and pushing him until the heat of their bodies merge.

He raises his hand.

It curves around her chin and cheek, and forces her to look him in the eye. Blue meets dark brown and they simply breathe for a second.

_Breathe._ Inhale. Exhale. Together. United. _Strong_.

“Just tell me,” he whispers, uncertain of this Clarke that’s so afraid. Yet, she’s the same one who has always been fearless, too.

They continue to breathe in tandem.

“You have to take thirty-five lashes…by the whip,” Clarke’s eyes burn in unimaginable fury and grief. “Like a _slave_.”

His hand falls from her face. Her words echo in his mind, bouncing around like a game of Ping-Pong. Their breaths never fail, though. They never stop breathing together. _Until the casket drops and their bodies’ burn to ash_ , they’ll never stop. It’s who they’ve become.

“Okay,” he repeats over and over until they’re both nodding their heads and they don’t feel like the world is collapsing in on them.

At least it’s not death. _At least_ it’s not death. Anything else they can handle. They don’t say it. They don’t need to. They understand.

At least it’s not death, and on the ground? On the ground, it’s the best answer any of them could ever hope for.           

 

***

 

There are many different types of love; the confusing kind is the best and the worst—the kind that stands for everything, or maybe nothing at all in the long run.

Bellamy's hands are strapped to two trees so he can't escape, waiting to be whipped. For whatever reason, maybe sympathy, or curiosity, the Grounders allow Clarke to talk to him for a few moments before it begins. At least twenty of the Hundred (sans Octavia who Bellamy hadn’t wanted to see him so _humiliated_ and _degraded_ ) are there as a show of strength, and a sign of support for Bellamy.  
  
"I love you," Clarke says fiercely, heart beating _too fast_ in panic about what's to come. "And I'm right here with you."   
  
She doesn’t know where the words came from or how she means them. She doesn’t know where and when that love began, or where it’ll end. All she knows is that it’s true and he should hear it, know it. Its meaning is so convoluted—an amalgamation of hate, fear, hope, and the _deepest fire of so many kinds_ —that she’s not sure anyone but them, maybe not even them, could truly realize all that it means and encompasses _._

Bellamy lets that devotion sink into him. He lets himself take strength from it.   
  
"I know," he nods once, eyes wide, badly trying to conceal his fear. He _does_ know, because he feels it too. He feels what she feels. _Together._ Fucking _linked_ through this hell, and maybe even beyond it. He notices how her eyes burn. Perhaps he can give her some strength through this like she's giving him. He repeats with everything he has inside of himself, " _I know_."  
  
Maybe it can mean more than it does—maybe it already does. But right now isn't about _that_ as Clarke steps back, and the first slash of the whip digs into Bellamy's skin. _I love you_. _I love you_.   


The mantra stays with them as the whip falls again and again. It stays with them as Bellamy's grunts become tortured moans of sharp pain. It stays with them as he bites his lip so hard it begins to bleed, and tears pool in Clarke's eyes as she tries to stay stoic. It stays with them when Jasper can't take it anymore, the sound of his retching barely audible over Bellamy's screams. It stays with them as Christopher and Harper struggle to hold Miller back from launching himself at the Grounder with the whip. It stays with them as Monroe begs for the Grounders to _please stop_ —too young to witness such atrocities. It stays with them as Bellamy's screams turn into broken sobs, and Clarke silently cries with him.   
  
_I love you. I love you_. It stays with them, long after justice has been served and retribution paid.   
  
_I love you_ , whatever the hell it means anymore, stays with them, giving them the slightest glimmer of hope in all of this darkness. 

 

***

 

Darkness pulls Bellamy under over and over again.

Blink—he’s being carried on a makeshift stretcher through the woods.

There’s so much green around him and dirt below him that he thinks he might be floating in heaven for a moment. _Is this what heaven is like?_

Blink—he feels nothing but pain as Clarke washes his back with moonshine.

Her hair is a like a halo around her, shedding light and grace upon him. He wants to pull at it, _pull, pull, pull_ , until he’s reborn and innocent again. He misses innocence. He misses it like flowers miss the sun, obsessively and harshly—wilting from within from the lack of it. But none of it matters. None of it can matter because all that remains is _pain, pain, pain. So much pain. Someone, please, make it stop_. But it never stops. Not on Earth.  

Blink—he hears nothing but the beating of his own heart.

_Thump, thump, thump_. Silence is suffocating and elevating. No one shouting for his release. No one asking if he’ll make it. No one questioning whether or not infection will set in. No one at all. Just him. Just him and Clarke who hasn’t left his side for a single moment since they returned to camp. _Thump, thump, thump._ He realizes it’s not just his own heart beating, but hers too. _Together_.  

Blink—there’s so much nothing he feels like he’s drowning in it.

He hears from within this nothing, as he struggles, Clarke’s steady voice. She tells him that he’s _such a douchebag for falling asleep_ while she’s taking care of him. She tells him that _everyone’s worried_ , and _Octavia might be pissed off at Lincoln just for being Trikru_ , since they did this to him. She tells him that he’s _going to get better soon_ , and he’ll be _bossing everyone around as usual_. She tells him so many things that are true and untrue that everything mixes together, and all that’s left is the smooth sound of her voice. Just the sound of her voice.

Blink—Octavia sings to him like he used to badly try to do for her as a child.

Everything is bright and loud, and he realizes that Octavia _can’t sing_ to save a life. Definitely not his life, and he can’t help the wince that shows on his face. Octavia, too engrossed in her own voice, doesn’t realize he’s opened his eyes. He doesn’t have the heart to make a noise. He doesn’t have the strength, either. Instead, he closes his eyes, and remembers her when she was a little girl. He remembers when everything was just _one more_. One more piggy back ride, one more chocolate bar that he had stolen, one more bedtime story. _Just one more, Bell!_  

Blink—there’s nothing. 

In this nothing, he misses Clarke’s whispers of comfort. He misses the knowledge that she’s _with him_. In this nothing, the darkness doesn’t try to keep him under—he doesn’t have the strength to fight for the surface. In this nothing, where he is utterly alone, fear doesn’t take hold of him. There is no fear. There is no pain. There’s simply a longing for all the things he never knew he had, until they’re out of his reach now.

He knows that nothing will ever be the same again.

 

***

 

Nighttime is the worst time for Clarke, in these first few days after Bellamy’s sacrifice and penance. His groans are bearable—he’s _feeling_. It’s his silence sometimes that gets to her. His silence is _too much_ , too reminiscent of the dead.

But after days of treating him, Clarke’s exhaustion is too steep. Unable to keep her eyes open, she falls asleep as Monty walks in. His footsteps are silent, but Bellamy’s eyes snap open.

He hadn’t been asleep at all; he can hear his own screams when he closes his eyes, and though he’s dog-tired and drowsy from pain and fatigue, he can’t bear to sleep right now. Not as long as he can help it.

Monty and Bellamy look at each other in silence. It’s slightly awkward for Monty, but Bellamy doesn’t care. He’s spent, and slightly shattered somewhere inside of himself. He can’t find it within himself to beat around the bush.

Monty’s a decent guy. Maybe _too_ decent to do what needs to be done and say what needs to be said, but Bellamy isn’t.   

“Make sure she’s sleeping and eating enough,” Bellamy says raspingly.

He hasn’t used his voice for anything except to scream in agony in days—first at the flogging, and then when Clarke washed his back with moonshine and then stitched him up, cauterizing some wounds as needed. 

“Who?” Monty whispers.

“Stupid isn’t your color,” Bellamy deadpans. “Clarke.”

“Oh.” Monty says lamely, highly uncomfortable. “Well, she’s worried about you. Everyone is.”

“Yea, and I’ll be fine once I heal. We can’t afford for her to run herself ragged.”

“I can try, but I can’t force feed her—”

“I don’t need excuses,” Bellamy interrupts him in that demanding and no nonsense way of his. “Just take care of her.”

Bellamy’s been awake too long; the darkness seeps in and out of his vision. He can barely see Monty anymore, he can barely speak. He tries anyway. For Clarke, he tries, and whispers as he goes under, “Just take care of her.”

Monty peers closely at Bellamy and Clarke, chasing their demons in their sleep, a frown marring both their faces. He watches as their mutual worry for the other bleeds into the very air around them.

He smiles slightly in understanding and walks away; words are useless in the face of so much support and loyalty. Because they are _connected_ , and Monty doesn’t think it could have ever been any other way.

 

***

 

There are many different types of love; the love between men is a silent one that doesn’t hover or suffocate. It exists as it was born, through acts of understanding.

“What happened?”  Bellamy asks as he tries to stretch his stiff neck. It _hurts_ to stretch even that, and he can’t help the slight hiss that escapes him.

“It’s been a week, lots of shit has happened,” Murphy shrugs.

It’s his turn to keep watch over the Rebel King. It’s boring, watching Bellamy go in and out of consciousness, delirious from the pain mostly, but it’s better than latrine duty. It’s better than wondering if Bellamy’s in need of him, and he isn’t there to help.  

“Don’t be a dick,” Bellamy grunts, “ _What happened_?”

He doesn’t need to explain what he means; Bellamy and Murphy understand each other in that way that only the best of friends can.

No one had bothered to explain the meeting that had decided so much, and Bellamy wouldn’t have cared to listen at the time. But he does now. Now, he cares to know, and Murphy, _honest Murphy_ , will tell him nothing but the truth. 

“The Princess went in guns blazing at that meeting. Shit, I thought we were the hot heads, y’know. We would rather shoot than talk, but your girl was practically _begging_ for a fight.”

“That doesn’t sound like Clarke.”

“Nope. But _anything at all_ for the ones we love, right?” Murphy smirks annoyingly.

It reminds Bellamy of the words that had stayed with him, through it all. _I love you_. It had been a declaration and a promise. It had been an unbreakable chain, ensuring he never sunk so deep he couldn’t grab onto it and haul himself up.

It might have been about _that_ , but they’re too complicated to be ever let such meaningful words be that simple. It had been about so much _more_ than _that_. So much so that Bellamy could never explain it even if he was given a thousand years.  

But he can’t talk _Clarke_ with Murphy, so he decides that a bit of levity is in order after the horrible weeks, _months_ , they’ve had.

“Aww, does that mean you _looove_ me, Murphy” Bellamy flutters his eyelashes in that way he’s seen girls do sometimes. It makes him chuckle, but it gets locked in his chest, the muscles contracting around his lungs from the front to the back, stretching the nerves and skin that have been brutalized.  

Even a moment of laughter _hurts so bad_. Tears spring in his eyes, but he holds them back. He’s stronger than that. He is.  

Murphy shifts uncomfortably and looks anywhere but at him for a moment. But this is Murphy, and he doesn’t shy away from harsh truths. He doesn’t sink when he’s out of his depth. He swims because he’s a survivor—in fights, battles, and in conversations.

“ _Screw you_ ,” Murphy glares right into Bellamy’s eyes. “Yea, I love you, and you love me, and that’s that, asshole. It ain’t news.”

Bellamy, humbled at all of the truths behind that statement, can only let out a beautiful laugh. It doesn’t matter that the tears that had pooled in his eyes at a chuckle rage and fall silently at the corners with a full on belly laugh. It rings and echoes in the air, because yes, he does love Murphy. He can’t stand the little shit sometimes, but he loves him anyway.  

He, still lying on his front ( _when will he be able to at least move onto his side?)_ , lifts his arm slightly backwards awkwardly, so as to not aggravate his back too much (but the pain is still _unimaginable_ ), and makes a fist. It’s a signal that Murphy understands clearly, and bumps his fist against Bellamy’s lightly.

_Best friends, brothers in everything but blood_ , till their bodies’ burn into ashes and dust. 

 

***

 

“You can’t move that fast!” Clarke rebukes Bellamy harshly as they try to move him onto his side.

His skin is mangled, but healing. The Cat of Nine that had been used (according to Bellamy, _the history nerd_ ) will leave horrific scars, but at least it’ll heal. It’ll heal and that’s all that matters. If only he would _move slowly_. If only he could move _past it_.

But Bellamy will never forget the feeling of nine leather bound cords, tipped with shard of metal and broken glass, digging in and ripping his skin. Clarke will never forget how much her hand shook when she had to dig out a few shards that had ripped from the leather whip to embed themselves into Bellamy’s back from the force of the lash. Neither will _ever_ forget, and it’s _so hard_ to simply move on. It feels like it’s _too hard_ on days like today when the true effects of the flogging are on such display.  

“I’m not an invalid, Clarke,” Bellamy says scornfully.

He’s not actually angry at her, but he can’t yell at his body, at himself, for what hadn’t been his fault. It’s strange because, though he knows it’s irrational, it almost feels like his body has betrayed him somehow. The muscles that he’s always depended on have become like strangers to him, and now he has to relearn and regain a trust that had been built between him and his body since the day he was born and started moving.

“This isn’t about you not being able to,” Clarke says matter-of-factly. Her hands are steady as she keeps them on his shoulder and hip very clinically. “This is about making sure you don’t hurt yourself _more_ than you already are.”

“So physical therapy is your answer?” he raises in an infuriating eyebrow. Even though Clarke can’t see it, she _knows_ it’s there, (she knows because she _knows him_ ) and she has to grit her teeth and plead to the stars silently for patience.

“You do realize that nerve damage is a real possibility right? It’s not a figment of a doctor’s imagination. We need to train your muscles to relax, and contract when you want them to, and not just be on high alert all the time after what happened. If they heal that way, then they’ll stay in constant spasm and you’ll lose some of that full range of motion you use all the time without realizing.”

“I have no idea _what in the hell_ you’re talking about, Princess,” Bellamy hisses as he settles on his left side. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“The _point_ ,” Clarke rolls her eyes, “is baby steps or else you’ll end up with stiff muscles that no massage can cure. You think this hurts? Imagine if I would’ve asked you to sit up.” 

She makes sure he’s steady on his own before stepping back. Her hands don’t linger, and he doesn’t wonder what it would feel like if they had. This isn’t the space for _that_. It may never be about _that_ for them, and slowly, every once in a while, the realization is stunning and awkward, and discomforting—if only because they’re not sure _who_ made that decision or why it matters at all sometimes, and sometimes not at all.

The silence is what it’s always been, and both of them are okay with it. She doesn’t say anything as she takes hold of his hand and gently tugs. He’s grateful and resentful too, in his own weird way. The mixture of emotions isn’t new to him. It feels like he’s always in a perpetual state of turmoil, especially around Clarke.  

Together, in silence, they lift his arm and stretch the muscles and nerves up and down, side to side.  It’s annoying and painful, but it also feels _really good_ to simply be moving about. After ten minutes she lets go of his hand and has him do it alone for five under her careful and watchful eyes.

Once enough time has passed, she helps him turn on his stomach and then to his other side to repeat the process with the other arm. They do this five times a day, every day now that his back is scabbed over and knitting itself back to together.  

Time is suspended in these instances where nothing exists except their determination to be _better_. Once done, and Bellamy is on his stomach again, Clarke goes to leave, but Bellamy, with his newfound confidence in his body again, _so grateful for the hope in his body again_ , reaches out and grabs her hand before she moves out of reach.

She glances at his hand, but doesn’t shake him off, acutely aware of the silence between them. But silence, like everything else on the Earth, doesn’t last.

“Are you eating?” Bellamy asks gruffly. He doesn’t want to pester her, but he wants to know that he’s not taking over her entire life. There’s so much more to focus on besides him. There’s always more.

“Are you my mother?” she snaps. She doesn’t want him to know that she’s been having nightmares. She knows it’ll haunt him to know that when she sleeps, her dreams are filled with his screams and blood, and her own inability to help him.

“I just—“ he doesn’t know how to say what he wants, but knows that he has to say _something_. When in doubt, fixate on a symptom instead of the actual problem. “You need to eat.”

 “I eat.”

“Enough?”

“More than you have lying down the past week and half.” It’s a snide comment that doesn’t faze either of them.

Bellamy sighs, and lets himself be honest for a moment, with her and himself. “I know that things have been hard lately, I get that. But you can’t get buried under it. Under _me_.”

“I’m not,” Clarke insists, but there’s a tension between them that speaks volumes. “And you’re not a burden, so stop talking like you are.”

“You love me,” he acknowledges it like it’s an accusation and all the rebuttal he needs. Maybe it is.

“Yea, and you love me,” Clarke purses her lips in irritation, and the heat from his hand in hers burns. They don’t need to hide from it; they see into each other clearly, always have, from the very first day they met and their eyes locked in front of the dropship door. They unravel each other, and it’s never easy. “What’s your point?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. Just…Just make sure you don’t love me _too much_.”

His eyes are soft, but they pierce her with intent. It’s the most he has to offer her, and it’s the only truth she really needs, because they’re not just part of the Hundred. They’re _leaders_ , and leaders need to be able to stand, together or alone.

His pain _can’t_ become her pain. It can’t. Not when so much is at stake and everyone is always looking at them to make decisions and be strong.

The tension in the room disperses, and her face and shoulders relax. Her eyes soften as she takes in all of Bellamy.

Clarke understands what he’s trying to say, and squeezes his hand lightly. They might be _linked_ , _connected_ to their very core, but they don’t have to be _broken_ together.

He lets her go and watches her leave, as exhaustion at so much exertion takes him under. He dreams of silence and comfort, demons pushed back by a quiet love; the only love that truly counts, whether it be of a potential lover or simply a friend—a love that _endures_.    

 

***

 

Bellamy wishes that he had time to mourn who he used to be, before the ground. He wishes that he had time to acknowledge and be traumatized after what happened to him. But there’s never any time. Not here. Not on the ground with a thousand things to do every day simply to survive.

Who went to the river and got fresh water? _Did they come back okay?_ Who went hunting this morning? _Did they catch anything? Were they hurt?_ Who’s skinning the animals? _Please be careful with those massive knives_. Do they have enough blankets made from deer skin for winter? _Is anyone cold at night, yet?_ What about housing? _These tents won’t do much for when winter hits in full force._ Who’s been mapping the edges of their “claimed” territory? _They should leave that alone for now until he can go with them and make sure they don’t run into any psycho Grounders._ Who’s gotten hurt today? _At least Jordan, the damn tornado that he is_ ; _the kid’s bound to have more scars than sense by now_. Who needs more weapon training, building training, skinning training, basic first-aid training? _Clarke should get an apprentice—start training someone specifically in healing just in case_. Has everyone been keeping up with latrine duty properly? _If not, they’ll all likely get sick soon._ No one’s been hunting boar lately, right? _They better not be._ The hunters know that Bellamy doesn’t like them to go hunting boar without him present, _too dangerous_ , he tells them.

All these questions and about a hundred more plague him every day.

Oh, people try to be conscious of the fact that he’s injured and not make him worry more, but after the first week, once he could stay awake for prolonged periods of time, the Hundred started to roll in, asking this and that, questioning when he’ll be good enough to get back out there, needing explanations and demonstrations that he can’t really give while lying down, and immobile. It’s actually pretty common to hear Bellamy yelling at someone from inside his tent, lying down. On any given day it’s either, _didn’t I tell you not to carry more than one basket of roots because they can be poisonous? Didn’t I tell you not to hunt that far out because there’s no cover for acid fog? Didn’t I tell you not to climb that high because there’s nothing to break your fall? Didn’t I tell you not to…not to…not to_ or _What’s the number one rule? What’s the number one rule? What’s the number one rule?! The number one rule is to use your damned common sense, and if you think it’s too dangerous then it probably is so hold your fucking horses and wait until I can take you!_  

He worries for his people, though he knows Clarke and Miller have everything handled. He still worries. He worries because Clarke, for all she wants to be out there helping to chop wood, skin animals, climb the trees by the quicksand ( _which no one better be climbing without his permission and presence_ ) for a special green sap that, rubbed on, acts like an antihistamine apparently—he doesn’t want to know how Clarke and Monty and Reagan (medicinal properties prodigy on the Ark) found this out, or any of the other countless things that get done every day in camp, she can’t. She can’t because she’s their healer, their only healer, and tons of people get hurt all day long. She’s needed as the doctor, as much as she might resent it sometimes.

He knows she does, even if she’ll never say so. It’s clear to him when that resentment bubbles and becomes too much, because she’ll decide to recklessly leave camp, usually with Spacewalker (though he’s not even sure what’s happening there, and doesn’t really care). Her fervor to leave camp at times only highlights how much she feels caged by camp, by the Hundred, and her role in it.

They could fill the sky with stars with the amount and size of their wishes. They really could. But wishes aren’t real. Wishes aren’t tangible. Wishes blossom in the mind, one for every time someone injures themselves.

So, to wish that he didn’t worry so much is futile. But finally, _finally_ he’s able to stand on his own and walk outside of his tent. Finally, his worries can be assuaged because he’ll _be there_ and _know_.

He walks out of his tent, back straight and erect (wrapped heavily in seaweed and crushed leaves that he doesn’t want to know about because it suffices to say that it smells _horrible_ ), jaw proud, eyes warm and alight with a sense of freedom and personal agency that he’d felt he had been sorely lacking all these past weeks while bed and then tent-ridden.

Clarke watches him with a scowl on her face from afar. He’s supposed to be in his tent and bed for a full month _at least_ , but after two and a half weeks, he’s ready. He has to be. She clearly doesn’t approve, but she knows how important his role in camp is—frankly, she and Miller have been running themselves into the ground without him.

He’d never mentioned before how the younger ones who are twelve and thirteen have nightmares _constantly_ —she thought it was only every once in a while. With Bellamy out of commission, she’s the one that gets woken up in the middle of the night.

He’d never mentioned before how many petty problems arise throughout the day; Miller can’t possibly field them all, and so he sends half her way, which means every ten minutes or so she has to stop whatever she’s doing. _Monroe let the firewood for tonight get wet so she should be the one to go out and collect more! Stirling is the one who dug his knife too deep in the rabbit—I’m not going out to catch more! Fox dropped the honey in the latrine and Harper’s the only one who’s been to the caves to collect more! Connor took my favorite ax and won’t give it back!_ Somehow, Bellamy had handled most of them himself, only needing her to help and step in when it came to the explosive fights—patience and a soft touch not being one of his strong suits.

Bellamy had never mentioned how much people depended on him simply for advice, and though she knows some still bother him in his tent, some of the Hundred go to her now, as the other half of the leadership in this rag-tag group of misfits not out of commission.

She’d never understood how separate she kept herself from the Hundred until now, when she realizes how _involved_ Bellamy is with _everything_. How much everyone _depends_ on him.

It’s a hard lesson to learn, that even though she makes decisions for these delinquents with Bellamy, she hadn’t really _known_ them until now. Not really.

It’s a different type of burden that she hadn’t realized existed. She shoulders it, though, the same way she shoulders Bellamy’s gaze: with _immense_ fortitude and a rapidly beating heart concealed by a strong constitution.

She should tell him to go right back inside before Jordan accidentally rams into his back, but this isn’t the Ark. They don’t have the luxury of time here.

Instead, she simply gives him a look that clearly says _take it easy_ , and he gives her one back that says _not a chance, Princess_. She rolls her eyes, and walks back into the med-bay, people to tend to and reprimand waiting for her.

Bellamy watches her leave, a barely there smug smirk gracing his face. This smirk follows him as he decides to take the long way around camp, stopping here and there to take in the process and problems of the day. There’s a hush that subtly grows, the more people see him walking about.

It’s the fear. There had been an intense fear, regardless of what Clarke said and what anyone saw who visited him, that he hadn’t been okay and that he wouldn’t be okay. Fear is like cancer. It spreads and infects everything.

Once it’s in a person’s system, it’s a bitch to get it out. Sometimes it’s impossible. Bellamy recognizes this, and grasps it for what it is. So, he fist bumps, pats shoulders, and teasingly ruffles hair. _Touch_. It’s a universal way to connect. The Hundred need to reconnect with him, on a level deeper than conscious understanding.

It’s a bit awkward though. People blush, and shrug away, acutely aware of the fact that Bellamy had never been so tactile. Not with them. Sure, they’ve all seen him hug his sister, and manhandle Clarke, but that’s _them_. It’s always been different, somehow. Everyone simply understood that there was a difference.

But now…now, everything’s changed. Yet, nothing’s _really_ changed. This had always been, existed, under the surface.

As the day continues and the sun rises to its peak in the sky, the noise that had been lacking while Bellamy had been “away” is slowly restored.

Harper’s laughter, loud and obnoxious, mixes with Miller’s unassuming chuckle and Fox’s tinker bell giggle as they surround Monroe who had fallen spectacularly; it’s one of the most beautiful symphony’s he’s ever heard, and it’s _so good to be back_.

He realizes that he hadn’t seen Raven or Jasper yet, so he walks with that determined stride of his to Raven’s tent. He goes to pull back the sheet when he hears Raven and Jasper in deep conversation.

He knows he should walk away. This isn’t about him or his concern. But Jasper says, “What am I supposed to do?” and Bellamy’s hooked.  The tent has a hole on the side, so he sagely makes his way over so he can listen in and see them somewhat.

Raven sits on her stool, and Jasper sits hunched over on her make-shift bed. He appears the epitome of a man who’s lost his way.

“Jasper,” Raven murmurs sympathetically. “I wasn’t here, so I don’t really know what happened between you two from the beginning, but whatever it was, you’ve gotta let it go, man. You can’t let this eat you up inside.”

“I know!” Jasper explodes. He explodes because it hurts _so bad_ though he always tries to hide it. Sometimes he succeeds. Sometimes, like right now, he doesn’t. “I know that I need to let it go. _I’ve tried_ , but…I close my eyes and all I can see is her, y’know? I—I drink to drown it out sometimes, and all it does is make it _worse_. I’m _such_ an idiot, okay, I know! But how do you _un-love_ someone? If you got the answer, feel free to spread the knowledge, yo.”

His words, though not incredibly articulate, hit a chord deep within Raven. Because she’s not sure _how_ to un-love someone, and she’s been trying. Little by little, day by day, she’s been trying to un-love Finn. She hasn’t been able to yet. She’s not sure she truly wants to, and maybe that’s the key. But she won’t say that to Jasper. To tell him that he hasn’t let go because he hasn’t wanted to would be to open a whole new brand of worms that she’s not equipped to handle.

“I’m not trying to be a bitch, but, Octavia’s all about the Grounder, Jasper. Unless you plan on lighting him on fire and burying the ashes, there’s not much we _can_ do about it—any of it. Just, time, I guess.”

“I know,” Jasper whispers; he wants to curl in on himself just at the thought but he _is_ Apache. He’s strong. Stronger than that. She won’t break him. But _damn it all to hell_ if it doesn’t feel like she’s trying slowly. Slowly she’s chipping at the weakest pieces of him that kissed her on the lips once, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean of his heart. “She’s there with him now. Right now she’s there with him, and it drives me crazy!”

A feeling not unlike betrayal passes through Bellamy’s chest, but he shoves it aside. He knew his sister wouldn’t stay indignant on his behalf forever. He knew that eventually she’d reconcile with the Grounder— _Lincoln_. He knew, but _knowing_ is never the same thing as seeing. Jaspers right leg bounces in agitation and he can’t help running his hands over his face again and again as though to wake him up from this horrible dream where the good guy _doesn’t_ get the girl.

Silence settles over the tent. It’s a heavy silence that speaks to something deeper than just a broken heart.

“I feel like I’m breaking every time she walks into camp smiling because of _him_ ,” Jasper growls in frustration and continues on to a rant. Unbeknownst to him, Monty sees Bellamy loitering outside the tent and sidles up next to him. They hear Jasper speaking, but they don’t speak. They share a look and simply continue to listen. “And it only makes everything so much _worse_ because this isn’t some tragic love story. We were never together. Never! It’s crazy, which makes this more ridiculous by the fact that it’s all in my head. Everything! The looks and the smiles, and the damn _something_ between us that I thought was growing, y’know? None of it was real. But I can deal with that, Raven. I can deal with knowing that we were never some epic love story, okay. I—I _can_. What gets me is that I _never_ had her. _Never._ Like some sick joke, I fell for her all by myself and don’t even get the damn consolation that _at least_ we were a thing. Because I was nothing. I’m _nothing_.”

“Jasper, you’re worth _ten_ of that Grounder,” Raven reaches forward to lay her hand over his clenched fists. Her eyes try to instill truth and dignity in him. “Even if Octavia never sees it, _you are worth more_.”

“Yea?” Jasper responds sarcastically. His mouth twists bitterly. “Then why do I feel like I’m _nothing_? If I’m worth more, then why _doesn’t she want me back_?”

It’s the hardest question ever posed to a teenager…the only question that doesn’t get answered when a teenager grows into an adult.

Raven doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing, and simply squeezes his hand. She _can’t_ say anything because she knows _exactly_ how Jasper feels. But she won’t admit it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Monty, outside the tent, shakes his head, and observes Bellamy. He doesn’t say how _good_ it is to have Bellamy back. That’s not their relationship. Instead, he says, “It’s hard, not being the guy who has a different girl to sleep with every night” and walks away.

It’s a dig at him and his sexual prowess, but Bellamy lets it go and nods slightly, alone. He nods and walks away, because, though it’s hard hearing Jasper’s words, _they’ve all been there once upon a time_. Monty and Jasper at the tender age of fifteen, sixteen soon, think that their feelings, so raw and powerful, are new to the world; every single person has felt that way at least once. Every single person has felt unwanted, lacking, and hopeless at least once. It’s not a journey that Bellamy, Monty, or Raven can help Jasper on.

It’s not a journey that any of them can help each other on.

The journey back from that feeling of inadequacy and being _less than_ can only be done alone. It’s one of the hardest loves in the world, unrequited love. It’s made even harder by the fact that after the initial punch to the gut, it’s not about the other person, not really.       

There are many different types of love; the love for oneself is a unique hurdle that is only ever uphill—self-respect is the most breakable of all loves.       

 

***

 

“Harper’s sick,” Clarke tells Bellamy with no preamble a few days later. It should irk him that _this_ is the first thing she’s said to him today, but it doesn't because courtesy has never been a part of their relationship. Courtesy is a privilege that they never really have time for on the ground. Maybe one day, but not today.

“Sick like the flu?” Bellamy continues to skin the deer that he and the other hunters brought back to camp.

“Sick like I don’t know what to do besides give her some seaweed tea, and keep her hydrated.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The _problem_ ,” Clarke replies derisively. “Is that I can’t _cure_ what I don’t know. She’s got fever, but she doesn’t seem to have an infection. She’s coughing blood, but her lungs sound clear as far as I can tell.”

“Crap,” Bellamy stops, though he really shouldn’t. Deer, unlike rabbit, spoils super-fast if it isn’t skinned as soon as possible. They learned that the hard way a few weeks back when they started hunting deer when everyone got tired of eating boar all the time. “Why didn’t she say anything? How did she even get that sick and no one notice?”

“It’s likely that she’s been sick for a while and didn’t notice herself,” Clarke shrugs. “A lot of sicknesses have an incubation period—some a few days like the flu, others weeks, some months or even years like consumption.”  

“So what’s the plan?” Because if there’s one thing he knows is that Clarke wouldn’t have bothered to come to him so early in the day, _especially_ as he’s skinning deer which needs his complete attention lest he digs too deep, unless she had a plan.

_Fuck_ , _he hates skinning deer._

“We quarantine.”

“Unless I’ve fallen into an alternate universe,” Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “She contracted whatever it is outside the wall. Where we _all_ go every day. Quarantine sounds like a moot point by now.”

“It’s not,” Clarke glares at him, and he can’t help but roll his eyes. He doesn’t have time for this right now. Unfortunately, neither does Clarke. “She could have stepped in something, or sat on the wrong rock for all we know. People go off on their own all the time—heck, she found the caves on her own. She could have contracted it then for all we know. _Outside_ isn’t very specific. The only way to contain this is to quarantine her and anyone who’s had any direct contact with her.”

“Like you,” Bellamy glares at her right back. He doesn’t like this. If she isn’t sick, then she’s putting herself in prime position to get sick.

Clarke sees the words on his lips, but she won’t be sidelined. They all do their parts, and this one is hers.

“I’m the medic. I can’t exactly throw her in a room and disappear.”

“I don’t like this,” Bellamy sighs, but he’s defeated and he knows it. She knows it, too, because she doesn’t bother acknowledging his words.

Bellamy wants to reach out for her. He wants to tell her that he believes in her, that she’ll find a way. But he knows that it’s not logical. He knows and it kind of pisses him off that the words won’t come anyway.

But they’re Clarke and Bellamy. Words are superfluous where they’re concerned; Clarke sees the intention in his dark eyes, and can’t bear it, so she looks away. She rejects the conviction that _she’ll make this right_ that lingers in his eyes.

She rejects it, and Bellamy feels it like a punch to the gut, but _he’s strong_ ; he can take anything she dishes out. She knows that.

He steps into her space like he’s always done. He steps into her space, but they both remember the feel of his hand on her neck. They both remember the way she had broken the status quo and stepped in between his legs. They remember _I love you_ , whatever the heck it meant and might mean.

They remember, and it’s weird and nice simultaneously.

They remember, however, today isn’t about _that_. Maybe it’ll never be about _that_. But it’s nice to know that they aren’t remembering alone.

 

***

 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night Bellamy will wake up in a cold sweat. His heart will feel like he’s been running all night, and he won’t be able to blink, afraid of being trapped in his dreams.

He’ll turn over and wrap his arm tight around whoever is sharing his bed that night. Usually Roma before she died on the way to rescue Octavia from the Grounder. Guilt over that eats at him like leeches, draining him. Now, he’s been slipping between Ariadne and Catherine.

There’s a freedom in losing himself so completely in someone else. There’s a freedom that he never had on the Ark. Not with Octavia as his responsibility. Not with that firm and ascetic wall to safeguard his sister’s welfare by guaranteeing his solace.

But in that first week on the ground, Bellamy had felt the full force of connection, and liberty. He had reveled in the joys of youth, and the beauty of a willing body. But nothing good lasts forever, and that freedom of touch and happiness turned into a deep seated need for comfort and contact.

Sex no longer frees him, but chains him in _the best way_. It’s a reminder that _everything’s okay,_ even for just a second. Roma had understood that, with all the sudden deaths. Ariadne and Catherine understand that, too, with all the lingering fear in the air these days. 

It’s difficult with Ariadne sometimes, because she likes to reminisce about growing up with Dax, who she doesn’t know he killed, and her time on the Ark before getting thrown in the Skybox. It’s a fitting punishment for him; she’ll ensure that he doesn’t forget Dax, a man driven by ghosts and desires that Bellamy never knew and never will. She’ll fall asleep with a smile on her face, and something will pull at his chest, and he’ll wish that he had the kind of memories that she has.

Things with Catherine are easier. Catherine likes the silence. In her silence, he can hear her heartbeat, and though it’s probably creepy, when he turns to her in the middle of the night, he’ll pause, waiting to feel that telltale _thump thump_ of her heartbeat.

There’s no reason as to why she wouldn’t be alive, but there’s a constant fear that chases him in his dreams and haunts him during the day. Bellamy’s afraid that he’s not _enough_ for the hundred—that he’ll work and strive, but in the end they’ll all die. Like Roma. Like Dax. Like Charlotte and Wells, and Atom, and Bethany and Marlow who can be assumed dead since no one’s seen them since that first week, and John Mbege, and the two that died on landing who no one spared a second thought about except Clarke.

Bellamy worries that their deaths are just the beginning, and so when he wakes up, checks to make sure she’s alive, he’ll bury his nose in her brunette hair that always seems to shine. He’ll take a deep breath, and let her unique smell take him back under, hoping against hope that he won’t see blood when he closes his eyes.

But now as he stands in the make-shift infirmary…Bellamy blinks and blinks, but the blood won’t disappear. He doesn’t wake up because he’s already awake. He’s awake, and _this_ _is happening_. This is _real_.

Bloody tear tracks stain Harper’s cheeks, and Bellamy doesn’t know how to help her.

Clarke sees the sadness and self-deprecation swirling in Bellamy’s eyes and doesn’t bother to tell him he shouldn’t be in there. 

“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” he tries to make light of the situation as he kneels down to her eye level.

“ _Fucking deer_ ,” she jokes lightly, but her barely there smile disappears as she has a coughing fit.   

“Do I even want to know?” Clarke says as she sits next to Harper and passes her a cup of water.

Bellamy doesn’t answer because Clarke really _doesn’t want to know_ ; she’ll just start lecturing her on the dangers of touching live deer, and hunting for sport. Bellamy would honestly rather gouge his eyes out and go deaf before subjecting himself to another one of her lectures. 

Clarke rubs circles on Harper’s back, and tries to get her to lay back down, but Harper sees the blood dripping down to the floor, and starts to cry in earnest. 

Clarke tries to soothe her, saying _it’s okay, you’re okay_ , but Harper only has eyes for Bellamy. Doctor’s give people false hope all the time. But she’s so _sure_ that Bellamy won’t lie to her. Bellamy won’t lie.

“Am I gonna die?”

He goes to say that he doesn’t know, but he glances at Clarke. Her blue eyes drown him for a moment, and he’s back in bed, staring into the back of Ariadne’s blonde head, and _so grateful_ that he’s not alone. He’s back in bed holding onto Catherine as if she were the only lifeline keeping him from falling into an abyss. He’s back in bed, alone, wondering if Clarke would care if he snuck into her tent just to check if she was still breathing.

In her eyes, he sees _so much_ and _not enough_ ; he wants to tell Harper the truth. He knows it’s the right thing to say, but he can’t find the words. He can’t hold on to anything besides the blood stains on her face, and Clarke’s blue eyes.

He can’t blink or move or pray. Not now. Not when he wants to _believe_ so damn badly that he’s enough.

“No, pretty girl,” he lies gruffly as he pats her leg. “You’re not gonna die.”

Silence settles like an old friend, and Bellamy wonders if she’s going to make a liar out of him, after all. It hurts to think that Harper, strong, quick-with-a-smile, always-got-his-back, _pretty girl_ might not survive the night.

It really hurts.

 

***

 

Miller can see the countless people crossing over a valley and heading straight for the river, as he sits tensely in the highest tree. It’s uncomfortable, but it allows him to see the furthest while not going too far from camp. He feels a jolt of fear that he hasn’t felt before. It grips him, its icy fingers refusing to let him go.

It claws at him until he’s running as fast as he can back to camp. Bellamy and Clarke will fix this. They’ll know what to do, he’s so sure, but he’s _so scared._

He runs and runs, but he can’t go fast enough. As the trees blur by his head, and the wind roars in his ear, stinging his cheeks, pictures flit through his mind’s eye.

His father’s hands, calloused, rubbing his back as he throws up.

His mother’s twinkling laughter before she died.

His lover’s sweet smile and beautiful dreams.

His chest feels like it’s going to burst, but he can’t stop running. _Never stop_. The fear that’s always brimming under the surface, covered by Bellamy’s bravado and Clarke’s calm logic can’t be contained because he’s by himself. There’s no Clarke or Bellamy here with him. He has to face this fear on his own, for the first time.

For the first time, he is utterly alone, and he’s not strong enough. The _people_ who are him as he is them are not strong enough.

It’s as he finally comes upon camp, sees the wall with its strong planks and birches, that a sudden calmness sweeps over him. It lifts him up and embraces him from within.

It’s as he walks through the gates that he understands how much Bellamy and Clarke mean to them all. _In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next_ , he prays. He silently prays that they _never_ have to know what it’s like to be without their fearless leader, and his _princess_.

 

***

 

“Where are Raven and Finn?” Clarke asks Bellamy through the dropship door.

There’s a space between them that’s unusual and tense; Clarke’s been dealing with the sick all morning, and so she doesn’t want to get too close to Bellamy, incase she’s contracted the illness. It’s a nice gesture on her part, but it grates on Bellamy’s nerves that she’s so self-sacrificing. He _hates_ the fact that she’s so willing to bear it all on her own.

 “They’re still not back from trying to scavenge some stuff from the crash,” he ignores the fire that flares in his chest. They should have scavenged the area _weeks ago_. Grounders probably took all that was there to find. He grits his teeth and stops himself from asking about his sister; Octavia, reckless and headstrong person that she is, demanded to stay inside and help Clarke. “How’s it going in there?”

“It’s going,” she’s short and clipped. She doesn’t mean to be but she’s so frustrated with the fact that she’s not sure what to do.  She’s not sure what she _can_ do.

They breathe in silence, so close, yet so far.

“More people are getting sick,” Clarke states the obvious because she doesn’t want to say what they both know. _This is going to get a lot worse before it gets better_.

“But Harper is getting better, right?” Bellamy asks pointedly.

“Yea,” Clarke sighs in a slow relief. “Yea, she is.”

Hope. They revel in it for a moment.

In this moment, everything is better than before. In this moment, the rain is still warm on their skin like the day they arrived, and nights aren’t getting colder; those that have died aren’t really gone, and there isn’t the ever-present possibility of war hanging over their heads.

But hope crashes on Earth like lightning hits the ground. Swift. Hard. In the blink of an eye.

Hope sets itself aflame as Miller approaches them and says in that no nonsense way of his, “we’ve got a problem.”

 

***

 

On the ark, one of the first pictures of the Earth that everyone is shown is a picture of the beach.

The sand is light. The water is the clearest blue that anyone’s ever seen. The sky is cloudless. The hearts of all who witness such beauty is warm.

That’s the first impression that everyone born and raised on the Ark has of Earth. It’s the same picture—it never changes, mostly because there aren’t a plethora of pictures of Earth on the Ark. Sure, there are the family photographs that have been passed down through generations, but those are private. Those are sacred. Those private photos only link family, blood.

The picture of the beach, that _immense_ entity on Earth, links every Arker. It’s one picture for all of humanity, to remind everyone that they are all in this together.

That’s the image that replays in Connor’s head as he coughs and coughs, blood spurting forth from his lips. He tries to think of what the salty water from the ocean might feel like. He tries to hold onto the sand in his mind, how course and fine it is. He tries, but the darkness creeps up on him.

He coughs and coughs, no happy memories to taint the beach in his mind. No family to drown out the noise of the ocean in his ears, comforting him, giving him peace. Few friends who will miss him besides Fox and Taylor. Maybe Bellamy. Maybe not. Perhaps Clarke. Perhaps not. But the beach is _so beautiful_. The sand rushes into the sea, taken by the waves as the sun beams down in a land of serenity.

That’s the image that he holds onto as his eyes close, never to reopen, blood still on his lips.

That’s the image that Stephanie tries to find as shivers in a corner. She tries to breathe, but it’s _so hard_. She remembers how much she used to brag. _I’m gonna change the world one day_. Her father would always smile indulgently at her and say, _gotta get to the Earth firs’ for ya to change any world, don’tcha now?_

It had been their little joke; their joke that wasn’t so funny once she had been sent to the ground. She remembers the first thing she did when everyone ran out of the drop ship was think, _where’s the ocean_?

Where’s the ocean? Where’s the beach? Where’s the beautiful sand? Where’s the _life_ that the ground promised?

She finds it in the corner of her heart as she remembers trying to taste it on the air with Octavia and Monroe. Stephanie digs her nails into her hands to try to hold the cough in, but it doesn’t work. There’s so much blood running from her orifices—nose, mouth, ears, eyes. She arches her back in pain—her lungs filling with something other than air.

Where’s the ocean? Where’s the beach? Where’s the beautiful sand? Where’s the _life_ that the ground promised?

She finds it in another corner of her heart that’s filled with images of dancing by the fire in camp, laughing with the Hundred over innocuous things, and crying together when Bellamy had been carried into camp.

She sees the beach in each moment. She hears the ocean in every tinkle of happiness. She feels the sand in each tug on her hand when she and a few others decided to chase butterflies on their way back to camp.

The image of that _life_ , so beautifully spent on the ground despite the horror and fear, carries her away as she takes her last breath. Inhale. Inhale.

_Gone_.

 

***

 

_Fuck._

It’s a collective thought that doesn’t even need to be uttered. Someone overheard and it’s spreading from person to person. _The Grounders are coming, the Grounders are coming_. Anxiety is through the roof; Bellamy could care less for the rumor mill—it’s not like Miller had told them in secret.

An army is coming their way. An _army_ , men with spears and swords, are on their way, and there’s _nothing_ that any of them can do about it. They’re not prepared. They’re not prepared, and _damn it all_!

Bellamy paces a bit, while Clarke simply tries to breathe. It’s getting heavier, the air around her. But she pushes through it. She has to.

“How far are they?” Clarke asks Miller.

“Not far. A day maybe. Maybe less.”

Bellamy can’t say a word though. If he opens his mouth all that will come out is _fuck_.

“I don’t understand,” Clarke sees the fury in Bellamy’s eyes and speaks to him. She tries to speak to his reason, but following logic isn’t his strong suit. It never was and he won’t pretend now. Not even for her. “We had a deal. We paid their price, and they agreed to peace. This _doesn’t make sense_.”

In through the mouth, out through the nose. Inhale. Exhale. _Breathe. Calm down_ , but it’s so hard for Bellamy. He can feel the _whish_ in the air as the whip comes towards him. He can hear the gasp of his brethren watching. _It’s coming. It’s coming_.

_I don’t want to die_. But he’s not going to die. It’s not death. Just pain. Just pain. He can handle it. But the fear is so much larger than him. He feels the fear of all of them on his shoulders, and he’s shaking with the weight of it—

Millers hand on Bellamy’s shoulders bring him back to the present. It isn’t real. Not anymore. It’s in the past. Touch reminds him to _be_ in the present.

It frightens him, how easily he can be lost in time and memories, just at the _thought_ of _them_. But he’s stronger than this. He’s stronger than his fear. He has to be.

So Bellamy clenches his fist, and looks Clarke in the eyes. Her eyes ground him, but he’s not going to think about that. Not today. Maybe not ever.

Instead he says, “Doesn’t matter what reason they have. If they’re coming, we need to get ready for war.”

“With what people? Half of our people are lying inside of the dropship puking blood!” She knows they had lost him for a second, but she can’t focus on that. He can handle this, whatever it is. 

She can’t afford to give him time to get over his trauma, to get his stuff together. They have to figure this out together.

She needs him. She might hate it, but she does. The _shift_ and _love_ that flows between them doesn’t change that hate. It runs alongside it, expanding it at times and other times merging with it and changing it completely.

He runs his hands through his hair, exhaustion and fatigue clear on the lines on his face.

“Do you guys have enough food and water in there?” he asks—one problem at time. As long as he doesn’t have to go hunting again today ( _hungry people can’t fight_ ), then he can focus everyone’s attention on keeping them all safe.

She nods and jokes morbidly, “Could use some medicine.”

He smirks, false bravado masking the intense fear and ache climbing through his chest. “I’ll get right on that, Princess.”

It feels okay for a moment. Not good, but alright because they’re Bellamy and Clarke, and in what universe aren’t they able to get through anything? They can fix this. They _can_.

Miller stands, watching as the bodies of Connor and Stephanie are taken outside and lain to rest next to Derek. Bellamy and Clarke turn their heads and watch somberly. Two people who couldn’t stand each other in life lain to rest together in death—the irony isn’t lost on Clarke, but it’s a crushing thought that these people died on her watch.

Connor and Stephanie had deserved better. So had Derek—the first to die today.

But Bellamy’s only thought is that his sister had been cooped up with the sick all day. She could be sick right now for all he knew, and suddenly a familiar panic seizes him. _His sister_.

No. _Get a grip. She’s fine._ Maybe she is. She’s strong. Blake’s are strong.

“O, you okay in there?” He yells out, which is a step above launching himself into the dropship like every fiber in his being wants him to.

Silence greets him.  

Everything blurs for Clarke, but she holds herself strictly erect. She won’t sway. She won’t sway. She’s not weak. She’s not. She won’t be weak in front of him. She’d rather be guilty than weak, and so she tells him, “She’s not in there…I sent her to see Lincoln.”

Everything blurs and blurs, but she won’t be beaten down. She holds Bellamy’s gaze that’s filled with _fire_ and _how could you_.

He wants to yell at her and tell her that _if anything happens to Octavia, they’re going to have a problem,_ but frankly, it’s an old issue between them that doesn’t need to be revisited at the moment. Clarke may have sent Octavia to Lincoln, but the girl goes to him nearly every day anyway. Bellamy has pretty much stopped even trying to reprimand her about it.  

How he feels about the situation has pretty much become a moot point by now, and he’s not so self-indulgent that he hasn’t realized it. Instead, Bellamy sighs in acceptance of what he can’t change and a sister that he can’t seem to govern.  

All he has is the only question that matters.

“Why?”

“If there’s a cure, he has it.”

Neither of them bother to say the obvious—if the Grounders are on their way to attack, then there’s no way _Lincoln_ is going to be giving them a cure.

Bellamy shakes his head tiredly. He wishes he could ignore the space between them. That enormous space which only seems to get wider and wider with every conversation and every new sick person. He hates that space. He hates it more than he hates the Grounders.

But Bellamy can’t focus on that fire that’s always brimming under the surface because there’s screaming and yelling. People are moving away from each other. So much blood. It’s everywhere. Someone’s vomiting blood and it sprays over so many. _Oh no._

People are pointing guns at the sick, and everything’s out of control. He’s trying to get it back, but someone bumps into his back, and he sees white for a second—just a split second, but it’s enough.

Finn and Raven have arrived, and are a part of the chaos. There’s shoving and fear, _so much damn fear_ , that Bellamy can practically breathe it in.

_Put the gun down! Put it down, now! Back up, don’t touch them! Get in the drop ship! Back up! Put the gun down!_

Everything’s slipping from their grasp—friends are turning on friends, enemies are more antagonistic, family is a thing of yesterday when no one was sick.

_Blood, blood, blood. So much of it. He’s not enough. He can’t fix this_ —

Gun shots ring in the air, and suddenly everyone is immobile.

“The Grounders won’t have to kill us if we kill each other!” Clarke says hoarsely. Her tongue and throat feel swollen, and everything is moving in and out of focus. _Breathe_.

“They won’t have to kill us if we all catch the virus,” Mike who turned seventeen yesterday with his dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, and pointy features yells at her. He swiftly raises his rifle and points it at Clarke. “Get back in the damn dropship!”

Bellamy doesn’t even think. Nothing registers except _Clarke, gun, danger_. His body moves before he can think of a course of action and grabs the front of Mike’s rifle, pulls forward harshly so that Mike lets go in surprise, then pushes back so fast that the butt of the rifle slams into Mike’s windpipe. Mike who he had joked with yesterday and showered with approval over his skinning simply because it was his birthday.

Bellamy wants to take it back—he wants to apologize, and admit that he overreacted but it’s _never_ okay to point a gun at each other. Especially not Clarke. _Especially_ _not Clarke_. So instead he looks at Clarke and sighs for the millionth time today.

“Hate to point out the obvious, but your quarantine isn’t working.”    

But Clarke doesn’t respond—no quips or serious words. Her rifle falls to the ground and she begins to collapse with it, blood stained tears leaking from her eyes.

Whereas before, Bellamy could only move on instinct, now it feels like his body is paralyzed. _Not her, not her, not her._

“Finn, don’t touch her!” Raven yells out but it doesn’t stop him and it’s too late.

Finn catches her before she falls. Bellamy notes how small she looks in Finn’s arms. How fragile. She says she’s okay, but _nothing’s okay_. Not right now.

_Fucking spacewalker_ regards her so lovingly as he refuses to let her down that Bellamy wants to slam the rifle into his face too. He ignores the strange and uncomfortable emotion with fervor. Raven on the other hand doesn’t want to do anything; she sees the love in his eyes, the barely concealed passion for Clarke, and it hurts to even _breathe_.

But no one notices her pain. No one notices except for Jasper who sidles up next to her and quietly takes her hand in his. She peers into his eyes and sees only the deepest warmth filled with friendship and support.

It doesn’t stop hurting, though. It might not for a long time. It might never stop, and the thought crash-lands her back into reality. Sometime between the love on Finn’s face and her break from reality, Octavia had come back into camp.

Words bounce around like a game of Ping-Pong; _there is no cure, but it doesn’t kill. Really, tell that to them!_

Clarke is taken away by Finn into the dropship. Bellamy turns his back on the image of Finn carrying Clarke away. _Focus_. This isn’t about _that_. It’ll _never be about that_. But something inside of him aches. It aches and tumbles into his stomach. But maybe it might be about _that_ one day. Spacewalker and his love can’t change that.

None of it matters though if they all die by sickness or by war.

“Did the Grounder happen to mention why there’s an _army_ headed our way?” Bellamy snarls.

His patience for the day has reached his peak. Honestly, his patience with Octavia expired the day she forgave _Lincoln_. He knows that Lincoln hadn’t been the one with the whip, but it doesn’t matter. He disdains him just as much as his people who humbled him so much in front of the Hundred.

It’s hypocritical since he crucified the man, but… _it is what it is, not what it should be_.  

“Yea,” Octavia snaps back. She knows why he’s so curt with her and she’s not sorry. She could never be sorry for loving Lincoln. Even now, the ghost of his lips on hers shelters her and gives her warmth. His touch on her face. _I’m not surprised you’re one of the strong ones_ , he had said. “The Grounders headed our way aren’t Anya’s people.”

“Great! _More_ Grounders? Just what we fucking need.”

_You have to help me save them!_

_I can’t. I’ve tried—my people think I’m a traitor now._

Her conversation with Lincoln flies through her head like snapshots. A touch. A smell. A sentences. It’s all _too much_ , but she has to focus. She has to stay focused because there’s a small army coming and she’s _so damn afraid._

“The Commander sent Tristan and his army to check out what was happening here—to see if we were still at war. He heard about the deaths at the bridge, and decided on his own that the price paid isn’t enough.”

_I’m leaving. I want you to come with me._

_And go where? My people are here, Lincoln._

_East to the sea, then across it. There’s a clan, allies to Tri kru, but they’ll take us._

“Let’s pretend for a second that we’re not fucking Grounders and tell it to me like I’m a five year old. Are we at war with Grounder Princess or not?”

A hush falls over everyone. Murphy who’d been one of the early ones to get sick stands by the dropship door, glaring daggers at Octavia. For him, it’s all simple. _Loyalty above all else_. Friends are friends and enemies are everyone he doesn’t consider a friend—the end. He gets that things aren’t that simple for Octavia, but he could care less about how complicated her moral code and heart are.

He sways a bit, but keeps a firm hold on the wall. Miller catches his eyes, and together they understand that it won’t matter what Octavia has to say. They have an army headed their way, regardless of Grounder politics. There’s an army of Grounders on the way to decimate them, and they better be ready to kill or to die.

Everyone feels the current of this truth run through the camp. It heightens the fear and anxiety—makes it much more tangible than before. This fear engulfs with such alacrity that it damn near blows some people over.

“Not with her, but he outranks her and has his own army, so yea. We’re at war.”

_I can’t just let my brother get killed._

_There’s nothing you can do to stop that now._

_I can warn them!_

“When?” He doesn’t need to explain.

“They attack at first light.”      

There’s a slight quiver in her voice that speaks volumes of her own fear. Bellamy wishes that he could hug and comfort her—tell her that everything’s going to be okay…but he can’t. He won’t lie. He’s not sure. He hopes and hopes, but fear strangles hope easily. It consumes _everything_.

_Octavia, they’ll kill you. If you’re there at dawn…_

_I won’t be—just wait for me here. I’m coming with you._

But Octavia learned from him, and after a moment her mask is back in place. Her constant anger at a brother who always tries to control her surfaces. It’s better than being afraid. It’s _better_ so he doesn’t bother to try and console her.

_They attack at first light_.

Octavia doesn’t want her people to die—none of them, not even Murphy.

_I’m not surprised you’re one of the strong ones_. But she’s not one of the strong ones. They’re all strong in their own way. They’re in this together, and she wonders if she really will be able to meet Lincoln. She wonders if she’ll be able to leave her people.

To leave the people who who’ve danced in the rain with her, and gone butterfly chasing with her. To leave the people who’ve ridiculed her and made her tougher because of it. To leave the people that have ran in fear with her, and have deemed themselves her protectors (even if only out of respect for Bellamy). To leave the people that have fought with her and against her—binding them all together.

There are many different types of love in the world; the love of people we strive with is a love that can never be broken because shared experiences can never be unshared, and even the shortest life has a long memory.

 

***

 

Bellamy’s chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, and his body refuses to stop shaking.

Sometime between the commotion and sending Jasper, Finn, and Raven out to make a bomb and blow out the bridge he’d fallen ill. Heck, a bit more than _half_ of the Hundred had succumb to the sickness.

Octavia had spent most of the night holding his hand and telling him _you’re okay, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, big brother._ He had been so glad that he wasn’t alone, so grateful that Octavia was with him. The way she had brushed his hair away from his face and had tended to him reminded him about the time when it had been just them against the world.

But in another weird way, he’s happier that she took a break and had been replaced with Clarke, that she’s not here with him anymore. He’s supposed to be the big brother—the one that’s always strong, that’s always able to fix things.

It feels like he can’t fix anything nowadays.    

_He doesn’t want to die_. Not like this.

“ _Fuck, I’m scared_ ” Bellamy admits quietly.

“I’m right here,” Clarke tries to console him, but all she can feel is the unimaginable panic that had shot through her when she awoke and saw him lying down, sick. All she can see are the faces of Stephanie, Derek, and Connor who died from this.

_Not Bellamy_ , though. Dying by illness is _too easy_ to be Bellamy’s death. Nothing’s easy for him, and he doesn’t do anything easy, either.

“I know,” Bellamy wheezes. He does, too. He knows it in that part of his soul where he knows that he’ll always love and defend Octavia regardless of how many times she hurts, defies, or betrays him. He knows, inexplicably, that Clarke is _right here_ with him, and always will be. But he says anyway, “Don’t leave.” _Fuck, it hurts_.

“I won’t. _Never_.” Clarke declares.

She says it so sincerely that it’s merely a reaffirmation of what he instinctually knows. _Always_. But _always_ doesn’t last long on the ground. Maybe on the Ark, _always_ could be another sixty years. But on the ground _always_ could be a week, a day, a minute. 

It’s a new facet to them, and yet, not really. It’s always been there. Even before. Underneath the vitriol and hate, covered by conceit and hubris, they’ve always been linked; there was never any chance of walking away. There was never an option. They, whether or not the earth crashed around them, were always going to be bonded. _Always. Never leav_ e.

She sees the despair in his eyes and tries to give him water but he refuses. “You _need_ to drink, stay hydrated,” she reprimands him like a child. “Hydration is the key to this thing. We didn’t even realize it until after Connor died. And with Stephanie it was too late, but no one’s died since her, so it must be the water.”

“I _need_ to know what’s happening out there,” Bellamy lashes out. But it doesn’t bother Clarke. It moves her intensely to know there’s still fight in him. As long as Bellamy fights, they’ll win. It’s the infinite miracle of _him_. “Were Jasper, Finn, and Raven able to get the dangerous fire-thing moved safely to the bridge? Have they blown the bridge up, yet?”

“It’s not called a _fire-thing_ ,” Clarke rolls her eyes, shoves the cup up under his nose until he rolls his eyes, too, and takes a few sips. “She made a _bomb_ out of that _hydrazine_.”

“Whatever,” he responds flippantly, but he pins her with a solid look.

“If they had by now, we’d know,” Clarke whispers. She doesn’t want to give him anything but hope, but she needs his words, too. “If they don’t make it in time…if the army passes through the bridge…”

“One fear at a time, princess,” Bellamy jokes self-indulgently. “Let’s focus on me not dying, then we can talk about epic might-be battles.”

“Bellamy,” she guts him simply by saying his name.

He knows there’s so much that they have to discuss, like what they’re planning to do with that army, whether or not they’re going to try to contact Anya, what they’re going to do about these mysterious Mountain Men that they haven’t even had a chance to truly think about. 

He knows there’s so much that can never be spoken about too.

Instead, he focuses on the heat that’s shared between their bodies as they sit and look upon their sick friends. He leans a bit against Clarke, just to see if he can hear her heartbeat from there.

Her eyes peer into his curiously, and _fuck_ , _she looks so damn tiny._ He doesn’t like it when she appears so small—it reminds him of how breakable she just might be…

It’s a strange feeling, every time he recognizes that she might not be as strong as she always seems. But she _is_ strong. She’s proven that she’s a force to be reckoned with and there isn’t a chance that they’ll lose.

Not now. Not ever. They can’t. That’s not who they are. That’s not who they’re meant to be.

“How are you?” he asks. It’s better than hauling her into his arms just so he can be closer to her heartbeat. It’s not weird. It’s not. _Shit, maybe a little. Get a grip, man._

“I’m okay,” Clarke shrugs. “Lincoln was right. It passes quickly. Harper and Murphy and a few others are already on the mend. Even you and me don’t look _too_ bad.”

“Speak for yourself, Princess,” Bellamy smirks. “I always look hot.”

“Oh yea, _so hot_ with blood all over your face.”

“Didn’t get the memo? It’s the new cool—look around. Everyone’s jackin’ my style.”

They share a small laugh at themselves, but it’s pure. It’s full of hope and youth because they _exist_ and it feels _so good_ to know that being sick, seeing deaths door, doesn’t stop that.

She notices the flattened hair with sweat, the sickly and ashen skin, the tired eyes, and the bloodstained face. She scrutinizes _everythin_ g. But regardless of how haggard he looks, she knows he can get through anything. He’s _Bellamy Blake_. It feels good to know it in her bones. Few things feel good lately.

“Tell me one of your ancient stories,” Clarke sits back and takes a sip of water. She offers him the cup, but they both know it’s not a request. He rolls his eyes, but responds anyway after a gulp of the water.

“Which story you in for tonight? Love? War? Betrayal?”

“Anything with less flare?” Clarke raises an eyebrow.

Bellamy looks away, and stares at the dropship opening. “Maybe we should get everyone inside?”

“Running scared?” Clarke knows it’s a low blow, but she doesn’t like it when she can’t see his eyes. It feels like he’s hiding from her. After everything, she’d rather he be angry at her than hide from her.

He turns completely toward her, eyes blazing into hers. They drown in each other for a moment, but it’s not about _that_. They drown and fight and _hurt_ each other with a simple glance. They also save and help and comfort each other in that same stare.

Eyes to eyes, they are everything. And in this everything, there’s a sadness that dreams and wishes can’t shake. The sadness of reality.

He denies her observation emphatically, “This isn’t about being scared. This is about practicality. I figure you’d appreciate that since you seem to be the queen of pragmatism.”

“Don’t try that one on me, Bellamy,” Clarke’s voice is stern. _Together_. “I may be all about logic, but since when are you on board with hiding behind the dropship?”

“You’re not the only one with a brain here, Clarke,” he grips her arms suddenly.

_Yea, this is better_. They burn inside, and sometimes they need that raging heat and fire to engulf them. Clarke doesn’t try to get out of his arms; she burns just as bright as him. _Together_. She twists her hands so that her nails are digging into him and she’s holding onto him just as tight. _Just like this_.

“Don’t you believe that Jasper will make the shot?” she asks him, but there’s something underneath the words—a desperation that lets him know they’re not really talking about that at all. “Don’t you believe in him?”

“You mean don’t I believe in _you_?” he shoots back, and _there_. Her eyes widen in surprise and anger. She lets go of him like she really has been burned, and tries to rip herself out of his arms, but they’re _linked forever. They’ll get past this._

_They’re better than this._

_“I believe in you, I believe in you_ ,” Bellamy whispers to her hoarsely. Clarke doesn’t stop struggling, and he doesn’t stop repeating the words until she does. _I believe in you_.

It’s so close to that fateful _I love you_ that he held onto that it’s almost pathetic and ironic. Almost. But not quite, and it feels like this is the storm they’ve both been waiting for since he had been whipped and recovering.

_This is the problem_ : they don’t believe in themselves, in their ability to be what they need to be—what their people need them to be…protector…healer… _good leaders_.

“I should’ve done _more_ ,” Clarke whispers harshly. She doesn’t clarify and he doesn’t ask. There are too many things she _should’ve_ done more concerning—more for Stephanie, Derek, and Connor. More for him. More for herself, too.

Just _more_.

“Maybe,” Bellamy nods, and his grip turns gentle. His calloused hand runs up and down her forearm slowly. “But I should’ve done _better_.”

She sighs, and accepts what he’s not saying. They’ll never stop making mistakes, and they’ll never stop caring. It’s too late for any of it.

“Maybe we _should_ get everyone inside, just in case,” Clarke breathes slowly. She breathes in rhythm to Bellamy’s touch. It’s nice and infinite. But today _especially_ can’t be about _that_.

“Better sick than dead,” Bellamy agrees and lets her go.  

Night has come and gone, and in its place is the paleness that comes with daybreak. The fog of the earth threatens to surround them as they try to move people into the dropship—many are reluctant because they don’t want to catch the virus.

Bellamy and Clarke could care less about what the Hundred _want_ at the moment, as long as they’re alive to complain. _As long as they’re alive_.

As people are shuffling slowly into the dropship, a loud _boom_ shakes the earth around them. The trees tremble with the force of the explosion, and a mushroom cloud of doom and despair rises in the sky. Everyone is immobile. Everyone stares at the cloud in the distance. Everyone feels a burst of faith so beautiful and large that their limbs quiver in gratefulness.

_Jasper did it_. _They did it._     

The taste of optimism lingers in the air, but for Clarke, a dark breath of anguish and desolation converges inside of her. _They did this_. _How many lives lost so that they could survive?_

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds,” Clarke quotes, a deep sadness fighting against the urgency of _liveliness_ of survival.

Bellamy beholds her—the lackluster of her hair, the sallow color of her skin, the bloodshot eyes, and the bloodstained cheeks. He _beholds_ all of her.

He had never loved her more, _whatever the hell way it may or may not be_. He had never loved her more.

She glances back at him and catches him observing her; she had never felt more at peace or _special_.

_They._

They live to fight and love another day, so they turn their back on the destruction they’ve ordered and return to the task of attending their people. At least, _they live to fight and love another day_.

There are many different types of love in the world; the only love worth talking about are the ones that are larger than the sky and the sea; the only love worth talking about are the ones that are larger than that clear blue ocean that washes into the beach; that love, well, that love comes in many forms—each as beautiful and heartbreaking and anxiety inducing and _scary_ as the next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, what do you guys think? I agonized over all the Bellamy and Clarke scenes in this chapter so much, because I wanted them to grow a bit together while still be them…somehow…not sure if I succeeded. Bright side, we are officially back on schedule with canon as promised! :) 
> 
> Anywho, liked it? Hated it? Let me know!


	9. The Beating of Hearts and War Drums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been written for a VERY long time--so sorry. But, bright side: I've started writing again. I lost the outline that I wrote for this story, so I've had to rewrite it. It's difficult, but it's happening, and hopefully I'll have another chapter for you guys sometime this upcoming month. 
> 
> Anywho, I tried to keep Bellamy and Clarke in character while upping the ante a bit. Hopefully I succeeded and it’s up to par!

/ _We’re falling apart, still we hold together_

_We’ve passed the end, so we chase forever_

_Cause this is all we know, this feeling’s all we know_ /

\--All We Know, The Chainsmokers ft. Phoebe Ryan

Chapter 9 – The Beating of Hearts and War Drums

“The hunters are back,” Raven notes as she passes Murphy. “Is Finn with them?”

Her question is innocent, but the last few days have been hard on everyone. Everyone’s been hunting longer and harder because the wind is chillier on their skin. Winter is coming.

Winter is coming and they are _so not_ prepared.

Bellamy and Clarke have tried to not let anyone see their worry, only their steadfast decisions, but they can’t hide what everyone feels in their bones already. Winter is coming.

The days are getting shorter, too. Raven had finally noticed this when she walked into Finn’s tent to bare her soul, and had walked back out five minutes later, single, but with the sun hanging low in the sky.

It’s been weird, knowing that Finn isn’t _hers_ anymore. Maybe it doesn’t matter because he hadn’t been hers in a long time, not really. Either way, it’s strange to have to acknowledge the space inside of her heart that’s usually so filled by Finn.

Raven wonders if Clarke and Bellamy ever feel like this. If they’ve ever felt this.

 _Is Finn with them?_ she scans the crowd, but doesn’t see him. A pang contracts her chest, but she pays it no mind. He isn’t hers.

“I don’t think so,” Murphy replies. There’s a glint in his eyes that catches Raven’s complete attention. “Hey, relax. I’m sure that Clarke’s keeping him out of trouble.”

His cruel smirk goes unnoticed by Raven as she feels that pang, stronger, and walks away. Finn isn’t hers. He isn’t hers, but he’s supposed to _want_ to be. He isn’t supposed to move on. Not now. Not ever. Not with _her._

Murphy knows what he’s done by planting that seed of doubt in her mind. He knows, but frankly, he doesn’t really care. He’s _so bored_ in camp. Bellamy had practically forbidden him from hunting with the rest— _things need to get done here, too_ , _Murphy. You need to keep them all focused._

Yeah, Murphy gets it. He’s the enforcer. But on days like today, when everyone can practically taste the fear in the air— _Are we going to war? Will we survive winter? Is it safe to go to the river and wash? Is anywhere safe anymore?_ —everyone’s on their best behavior. Everyone’s doing everything they’re supposed to, pretty subdued, and so there’s nothing for him to _enforce_ besides the straggling and procrastinating person or two.

So, yeah, he knows what he’s done to Raven is cruel. Mean. Harsh. But, well, he’s John Murphy, and frankly, he doesn’t really give a fuck about Raven Reyes as long as she’s not dead or dying.

With this knowledge and understanding of himself, Murphy turns back to his own work, wondering what drama will ensue when Finn and Clarke return.

As he turns he misses Raven entering Bellamy’s tent.

 

***

 

Raven’s waiting for Bellamy when he enters the tent. She doesn’t question why she goes to him and no one else; they’re kindred spirits. Fighters. Warriors who have always understood each other.

He sees her and pauses, unsure of what he’s stepping into, but his mouth starts to move before he can grasp anything about the situation. “What are you doing in here?”

 “They don’t waste time, I’ll give them that,” Raven answers the real question he hadn’t asked. The pain in her voice evident on her face. “What’s it been? A day and a half?”

“You’re mistaking me for someone who cares,” he responds harshly. He knows exactly what she’s talking about—nothing stays hidden long in camp; everyone knew the moment Raven broke things off officially with Finn, because he’d walked out of their tent with that kicked puppy look that annoyed Bellamy to no end. His lie rolls off the tongue easily, completely in tune with his persona. Because he does care. He does. So damned much that sometimes he thinks he could burst from caring about all of them so much. “Time to move on.”

He’s talking to her, but he’s also talking to himself. _Time to move on_ because Clarke and he aren’t about _that_ and they’ll never be about _that_. He can’t let himself drown in the heat of what might be if only they’d let themselves have it.

Bellamy starts to shrug off his jacket, but Raven sees it for something different. Maybe an invitation. Perhaps something _more_.

She sits on the bed and starts to take off her shoes boldly.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving on.”

Bellamy feels his breath acutely ( _inhale, exhale_ ), as he watches her. She stands and shimmies out of her pants. Bellamy sees her. Sees into her, maybe like he always has.

There’s so much pain, hurt, insecurity underneath bravado that she’s never been more beautiful to him.  

She walks up to him, though there’s a large enough gap between them. It feels like the size of the ocean, and a tiny puddle simultaneously.

“I’ve never been with anyone else but Finn,” she admits bravely with a quiver of insecurity. So damn brave that Bellamy can barely breathe. She looks away, but refuses to be look back. Back to _before_ this moment. This is happening. She wants this. At least she thinks she does. So she meets his gaze head on and fiercely says, “Take off your clothes.”

Bellamy doesn’t move, and she can’t stop now. Anything but that.

“Fine,” she proclaims fearlessly. “I’ll go first.”

Her fingers nimbly lift her shirt over her head. Bellamy never looks away from her face—that face that trusted him when they hadn’t even known each other.

“If you’re looking for someone to talk you down,” he tries. Dammit, _he tries_ because he doesn’t want to be _that_ guy who takes advantage of women at their lowest. But he doesn’t want to be the _other_ guy, either, who turns his back on a beautiful woman in need, because that’s not something men did right? Not real men, anyway, right? “To tell you that you’re just upset and not thinking straight, I’m not that guy.”

But he _is_ that guy. Oh, he is. Just by mentioning that she might be hurt and pissed, he’s telling her _not to do this_. He doesn’t _want_ her to do this. Not to herself or to him.

_Screams._

_Sobs._

_Blood_.

He shakes his head and refocuses on her—on the greatest dilemma ever known: how to deal with pain and suffering.  

Because once they fall into each other, there’s no going back. He’ll never be able to un-feel her skin beneath his fingertips.

_I’m not that guy. I’m not that guy._

_Please, don’t let me be that guy_.

But instead of heeding that not so silent warning, she steps closer, invading his space, in answer.

“Good.”

With one word, all is lost.    

With one word they’re teeth and lips, and _yes, yes, yes_.

Raven’s dark eyes dig into him, lay him bare… _yes, yes, yes_.

But this is wrong. This is _so_ wrong. This isn’t who they should be. Not to each other.

The way Raven’s fingers glide over his skin—forearms, biceps, neck, shoulders, back—captures him… _yes, yes, yes_.

But this is wrong. This is _so_ wrong. This isn’t who they should be. Not to each other.

Yet, the way her lips push and pulls against his has never felt so right. They fit _like puzzle pieces in the same puzzle_ , they enrapture each other. _Yes, yes, yes_.

_More, more, more._

Nothing is enough. Not the heat that ensnares them within its hold. Not the moans that break free from their tortured souls. _Nothing is ever enough_ because _yes, yes, yes_ , the dead are gone and the living are hungry.

 _The living are hungry_ , and Bellamy and Raven are the hungriest of them all.

They’re _so_ hungry.

But the righter everything feels, the more the pain digs and digs until they’re both breathless—reaching for a euphoria that’ll relieve them from it all.

 _Blood_. _Screams_.

_Raven, I love you._

_Not the way I want to be loved._

They reach for a nothingness so pure that Raven can only cling to Bellamy, and Bellamy can only cling to her moans.

They claw and fight each other in the _best way possible_ , and it’s kind of awesome and heartbreaking because they both feel like everything’s falling apart. Everything is hopeless, but it’s okay because they’re not alone.

They’re not alone. They’ll never be alone. They have each other. Even if Bellamy’s more focused on keeping himself together, and Raven’s more focused on keeping the severe sense of despair at bay.

 _Please, please, please._ They’re so close to perfection. If only he’d take that last step, and commune with her. If only he’d merge their bodies in that dance as old as time.

 _Please_ means so much that they can’t explain: please don’t stop, please don’t let this ruin who we are to each other, please make the pain go away.

 _Please, please, please_. They’re so high, they’re almost touching the stars.

All that’s left is an echo of _please, please, please_ , as they both pause, breathless; he hesitates, and she sees the rejection in his eyes. The clear _no_ that won’t allow him to go further.  

Raven goes to roll off of Bellamy, but he holds onto her tightly.  He stares at the ceiling of his tent with a growing pit in the middle of his stomach.

He wants to jump out of the bed which he’s shared with his fair amount of girls. But she deserves this moment. She deserves to have someone tell her that _it gets better_ and _everything’ll be okay_ , even if he’s not sure it’s true. Even if he can’t say the words with conviction.  

_Pain._

_Please stop!_

_So helpless._

“Why?” she whispers, tortured. Her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to close herself off. _Why?_ They both know she’s asking a hell of a lot more than why he stopped. But he doesn’t have answers. Not really. Not for the heartache or the pain of Finn’s betrayal.

“Because I see you,” he lifts his forehead against hers. “I see a girl who’s fucking _brave_ , and _smart_ , and too strong to let herself cry.”

Raven tries to struggle, to move away, but she needs this. Maybe he needs this too. To remember that he’s not hopeless either.

“You don’t need a quick release,” he continues hoarsely—he’s talking to her, but he’s also talking to himself. He’s talking to the _them_ that feel broken beyond repair. “You don’t need kisses or touches, or— _you’re stronger than that_.”

“Float you, Bellamy!” Raven continues to struggle half-heartedly, but one by one tears start to spill forward. She wants to flee, but he refuses to let her. He wants to let her go, but instead he clutches her tighter. “What do you know about what I need?!”

“ _I know_ ,” he says gruffly, his own eyes burning. His mind recoils from the constant images of blood, and Clarke’s tear streaked face. “ _I know_ that you need to fucking cry little bird, or you’re gonna drown in it all. You’re gonna drown, and none of us can afford for you to drown. So _cry_ —let it out—let it _go_.”

“I can’t,” Raven sobs dryly, holding herself rigid for fear of letting go. Bellamy nods because he feels like he can’t either—even in a moment like this, they’re kindred spirits.

“You deserve better,” Bellamy whispers. He gives her a truth that haunts him in his nightmares—the truth that his subconscious can’t trust when he remembers the pain, and the tears, his own screams blotting out the world. “You deserved so much better than how Spacewalker treated you—you know that. No one doubts it. No one but _you_.”

“ _Please_ ,” she cracks, and he cracks with her because his own tears spill forth, and his chest rumbles in a chocked sob.

_Pain._

_Blood._

_I love you._

_I know._

_Raven, I love you._

_Not the way I want to be loved._

“You cry, I cry,” he bargains, and suddenly the dam breaks.

Raven stops struggling, and Bellamy isn’t holding her to keep her there, but to anchor him from the force of his own sobs.

They break down, memories and anguish tearing at them. It doesn’t matter that they’re both naked, still. It doesn’t matter that they were going to have sex moments before. All that matters is that they’re finally, _finally_ crying…and they’re not alone.     

 

***

 

The night is dark, and the stars sparkle in the distance as Bellamy walks through camp. He tries to quietly stop by each tent, and peek his head in without waking anyone. It’s annoying and weird, and slightly obsessive, but he just wants to make sure that everyone’s safe, that everyone’s sleeping.

That those that sleep aren’t plagued by bad dreams.

He walks and he walks, and he checks and he checks, and he’s _so annoyed_ with himself because all he wants to do is catch some sleep. Just a few hours to regroup, and be strong. Stronger than he was earlier today. Stronger than he’s been since he was brutalized.

Finally, with his brain going a thousand miles per hour, and his heart beating wildly in his chest without reason he passes through the gate. The guys on watch look at him hesitantly; they don’t want him to leave, but they don’t really know what they can say to stop him— _fearless leader_ that he is. He takes advantage of it and keeps walking until he reaches the make-shift cemetery.

He sits down by the empty grave that was made for Charlotte—they never did recover her body. Wild animals in the night probably beat them to her.

He stares, wondering if she’s among the stars that shine in the night. Wondering if he’ll ever get her blood off his hands. Wondering if he’ll ever, _truly_ , be okay again. But there’s a quiet strength that fills the space where all of the tears had been.

The stench of fear taints him, and he senses it acutely; this fear assaults him so randomly that he feels like he can’t catch his breath sometimes.

Everything seems so much harder now, after his _Passion_ , his immense suffering that sticks to him like death on a corpse.

He’s still suffering.

The blood. His screams. The tears—his own and everyone else.

His suffering is like a tattoo, etched into the very core of him. But tonight something had lifted. Holding Raven, letting her grieve, letting himself grieve for what he lost…something had lifted, just slightly, enough for him to breathe.

Enough for tonight’s insomnia to not be about him—not really.

Worry scraps and seeps into his brain.

He tries to calm himself. Sure, Clarke and Spacewalker are late, but that can happen sometimes. Earth can be cruel, and it’s prone to surprises.

_“Do you think any strawberries will grow around here in the summer?” Clarke asked randomly as they hiked their way to the river._

_She’d wanted to go alone, but Bellamy wouldn’t hear of it—things were too hostile with the Grounders for any of them to be walking about alone._

_“Do I look like I care?” Bellamy responded in that no-nonsense way of his. His back was killing him from all the re-building from the last storm, and he had blisters in his hands that were itching._

_“C’mon,” Clarke gave him an unimpressed look. “You’re not the least bit curious what an_ actual _strawberry tastes like?”_

 _“Why do_ you _care?”_

 _He wasn’t asking to be difficult. He was asking because her eyes, those baby blue eyes that always pierced him, were alight with curiosity and wonder. Frankly, he was slightly jealous that amidst all the craziness on the ground, she could find moments to still feel so carefree. He was slightly jealous, sure, but he also felt close to her. Closer than he’d felt to anyone in a long time. It was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant. Just new. Just_ them _._

_“I like to think about the color,” she shrugged, and stepped over a fallen tree._

_“Isn’t it red?”_

_“Yeah, but what kind of red?”_

_“I wasn’t aware that red had layers.”_

_“Well, it does,” she scowled._

_“Like an onion?”_

_“Like a_ person _.”_

_“So I’m a type of red?” Bellamy inquired, a devious smirk gracing his lips._

_“Yeah,” Clarke looked at him softly. He liked and hated it simultaneously when she looked at him like that. It always felt like he was fighting against a roaring lion in his chest. “’You’re a shade of red.”_

_“Do I even want to ask what shade I am?”_

_They reached the river. The soft crash of the water against the rocks sounded like they were steps away from heaven…or sanctuary._

_She didn’t move, and neither did he. He didn’t want to look away, too curious and too anxious to know the kind of red he was—the kind of red she saw him as._

_It mattered in that way that nothing mattered, yet everything sort of did, too._

_“Passion,” she didn’t look him in the eyes when she spoke. She didn’t need to. “Your red is the color of passion—joy—you know, that color that when you see it makes you question if you’ve ever even lived life.”_

_“My color sounds like a douche, if it makes you doubt like that,” he touched her shoulder softly, roughly, all the ways a shoulder could be touched really._

_She barked out a laugh, and gave him that unconvinced amused look she’d perfected sometime between all of the madness and_ life _._

_“Guess it really is your color then.”_

_He chuckled and pushed her, clothes and all, into the rushing river._

_She screeched as she fell, and he threw himself in behind her._

_Red._

_Passion._

_Joy._

_Maybe it was his color, but as she started to lecture on the hygiene problems in camp as she tried to teach herself to float by holding on to his shoulders—she didn’t bother to ask, they were past formalities—Bellamy knew red was her color too._

_Because they were the same._

_They were the same, and it mattered._

He thinks of that moment, and understands that it will always matter.

But Clarke’s okay. She has to be okay. She’s _Clarke_ —she’s not allowed to be hurt somewhere, scared without him.

It’s just the way things have always been.

 

***

 

 _Inhale. Exhale. Relax. Don’t panic_.

But all Clarke can think about is how fast her heart is beating, and whether or not Finn is okay. The air smells damp, a sure sign that it’s been raining outside.

Clarke wishes that she could see outside. She wishes that Anya hadn’t captured her. She wishes that her traitorous mind would stop saying that  _Bellamy’s on his way_. Because he’s not. He can’t be. He doesn’t  _know_.  

Anya walks into the hut where Clarke’s bound and gagged. She gives her prisoner a cursory glance, takes in her wide eyes, her shallow breath, and purses her lips.  _Weak_.

Nonetheless, she removes the gag. Anya hadn’t wanted this either.

“Why are you doing this?” Clarke asks. She needs to know. She thought after what they’d allowed to be done to Bellamy that peace was theirs. Clarke had allowed herself to believe in a better place than the one they all actually live in.

She feels like a fool.

Anya walks about fixing this and that, rearranging her swords and knives, as though any of it matters more than Clarke.

But Clarke isn’t weak. She’s strong.  _Sky people are strong_ , and she’ll be damned if she’s ignored.

“Why are you doing this?” Clarke repeats with a snarl. There’s a dangerous lilt to her voice that Anya recognizes and acknowledges. _Strength_.

“You injured many of our people.” Anya doesn’t avoid Clarke’s gaze. Neither are ashamed. They’re leaders and leaders do what they think is right.  _Always_.

“Those people were injured carrying out orders to _attack my people_ ,” Clarke takes a page out of Bellamy’s book. Fight fire with fire. She lets the  _pride_  and  _indignation_  that always seems to coil around Bellamy form around her.

It doesn’t matter that Anya hadn’t wanted to attack  _SkaiKru_. It doesn’t matter that they both know that Tristan and his army had been the one to attack. Tristan, whether or not Anya likes it, is her people— _TriKru_.

Anya will stand by him and his decision, regardless if she had agreed with the course of action.

“You fight like the mountain,” Anya says disgustedly. A sneer deforms her lips, but Clarke can care less; all Clarke wants to know is if they plan on killing her and Finn.

“Where’s Finn?” Clarke questions in desperation. The fear is eating at her. “Where’s my friend?”

“He is where I want him to be,” Anya responds imperiously while conveniently not really saying anything at all.

They glare at each other, but Clarke’s hope and fear clash. They dig and dig at her heels until she’s shuffling onto her knees, and letting go of the  _fire_  within her.

Bellamy’s  _fire_  and rage only work because they balance her optimism.  _Together_. That’s how they work, but she’s alone right now. She’s alone, and all she can do is use the faith that is so naturally Jake Griffin’s within her breast.

“ _Please_ ,” Clarke begs. Pride is useless to her right now. “We can work this out. We already  _did_. This isn’t you. This is  _Tristan_.”

“Your people thought they could attack without retribution,” Anya turns her back to Clarke’s steady gaze.

“And your people thought we’d take an attack lying down,” Clarke threw back. “This isn’t on us.  _We_  had a deal, and my people didn’t break it.”

“What’s done is done,” Anya continues to clean her weapons.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Clarke feels that spark inside of her. Hope flares and burns,  _if only_ … “Where’s my friend? Is he alive?”

“He is one boy,” Anya challenges Clarke.

“He’s  _one of mine_ ,” Clarke states steadfastly. She wants peace, but she’s not willing to sacrifice Finn to have it. Not after Bellamy. Not after all that blood. Not after the nightmares that still persist sometimes.

If Clarke lets her mind wander too far, she can still hear Bellamy’s screams so clear in her ears. She can still feel the silkiness of his blood in her hands.

 _Never again_.

“Your people are weak,” Anya stops shining the sword, and lets the hilt hang loosely from her fingertips.

“Strong enough to push your army back,” Clarke rebuts. But she knows this line of talk will get her nowhere fast. “You don’t have to agree with me. But we don’t  _have_  to be enemies. Not yet.”

 _Not yet_.

It’s the only truth that Clarke has to offer because if Anya kills Finn or her, Bellamy will never consider peace with the Grounders ever again.

 _Inhale. Exhale. Don’t panic._ She can do this. She can.

“Think about how a war affects your people,” Clarke tries to push her message home. “Your people may be warriors, but mine won’t ever stop if you kill me or my friend. You’ve  _met_  Bellamy. You know he won’t ever stop until every last one of you are dead.”

“Even your  _partner_  will be no match for us if the full force of the  _TrigedaKru_  come to fight.”

She’s right and she knows it. But so is Clarke.

“This isn’t the way,” Clarke sighs in exasperation and frustration.  _Inhale. Exhale. Don’t panic_. But her heart starts to race faster and faster. She remembers the whip and the blood. She remembers the screams and the pain she felt with Bellamy because they’re  _connected_. “We don’t have to go down this road. And regardless of what you say now, I know you don’t want to, either. If you did then you wouldn’t have bothered to try to make peace at all.”

“You beg because you are afraid,” Anya goes to leave, but Clarke can’t let this conversation end this way. Not this way. Not without a glimmer of hope.  _No, no, no._

“I beg because I know we can be  _better_ ,” Clarke’s words stop Anya in her track. That faith and hope burn brighter and harsher inside of her chest. “We can be  _better_  and  _more_  than what we are. But only through  _peace_.”

Anya’s gaze meets Clarke’s; they see into each other’s hearts, but they can’t understand what either see…because Clarke’s heart isn’t made the same as Anya’s.

Clarke’s heart is made of clay, while Anya’s is made of stone.

Anya turns away, and leaves. The silence settles over Clarke as the rough rope digs into the skin at her wrists behind her back.

For the first time on the ground, Clarke’s utterly and completely alone.

 

***

 

 _“What’s your greatest fear?”_ _Clarke randomly asked Bellamy._

_“Seriously?”_

_“What?”_

_“A thousand and one things to do around here, and you want to have_ this _conversation?”_

_“Oh, give me a break, Bellamy,” Clarke scowled. “I’m not asking you to make a life altering decision—you know, like sneak onto a ship being sent down to earth.” Her pointed look was so annoying that he could throttle her, if only to get that superior look off of her face._

_“Cockroaches.”_

_“What?”_

_“Have you suddenly gone deaf?”_

_“Your biggest fear is_ cockroaches _?!”_

_“Yeah,” he shrugged, frustrated with the sudden heat wave that was passing through the area._

_Clarke was stumped in that weird way that she didn’t quite know how to deal with, so instead she didn’t deal with it all. “Have you always been afraid of them?”_

_Her face lost that sharp look, and instead gazed upon him curiously, as though she were trying to see into his very soul. Maybe she was. And maybe he knew she was, and that was okay, too._

_“No,” he stopped trying to hide from the unforgiving sun. “It’d never even occurred to me that those little bastards existed until I saw one trying to crawl its way onto my rug—you know the panther skin from that first kill.”_

_“So you were afraid they were going to crawl into your mouth in the middle of the night?” Clarke joked, but Bellamy was too irritated at the heat, and the conversation as a whole to appreciate it._

_“More like I remembered that in all the fuss about the end of the world, nuclear war hoopla,_ they _were the only things to survive,” he pursed his lips. Those lips that spoke cruelly sometimes, and sometimes sweetly. “The entire planet could crash down around us, and the_ only _thing to survive would be cockroaches.”_

_“And that scared you?” Clarke tried to understand._

_“Yeah,” he nodded, blue clashing against brown in that horribly intense way that they could never escape. “That scares me,” he admitted quietly._

Terrified, practically trembling on the inside, trying desperately to scramble out of the binds that keep her captive, _that’s_ the memory of Bellamy Blake that Clarke holds. It’s utterly mundane, and intrinsically _them_ , and _so damn beautiful_ that Clarke struggles harder because she wants to make more normal memories on Earth.

She wants to make many more memories of ridiculous conversations with him. With all of the hundred, _her people_.  

 

***

 

“Clarke,” Finn whispers her name harshly.  

“Finn!”

“Are you okay?” he rushes to her, and cuts her bindings with a small knife.

“I’m okay,” she hugs him desperately. She’d been worried that he was dead already. It feels really good to know he isn’t. “How’d you escape?”

“I didn’t,” Finn stops moving forward to look her in the eyes. “Anya let me go. Said something about ‘being better’ whatever that meant. I’m guessing it has something to do with you?”

“Something to do with _peace_ ,” Clarke smiles slightly, relief and hope flying through her. “C’mon—let’s go before she changes her mind.”

They creep through the tents trying to be ninjas, but it’s too dark and even with all the months on the ground, it’s still not long enough. Not long enough to know the Earth the way those born on it do. So they step on branches, and rustle leaves.

Their hands grip each other’s tight, like the grieving hold onto the dead. Their palms sweat in fear and adrenaline, but their eyes are alert, their ears sharp for any noise that doesn’t belong to them.

One minute turns into two.

Two minutes turn into three.

Three minutes turn into four.

And so it went, until finally, _finally_ , they’re out of the camp and into the heart of the woods, journeying their way towards home.

_Home._

They should stop—it’s too dark, and they’ll likely only hurt themselves, but the prospect of reaching their _home_ , it’s too much to resist.

So they walk carefully, slowly, eyes constant on the ground and on the sky—letting the stars they know guide them home. Letting the North Star show them the way.

“It’s been a while since it’s just been you and me,” Finn says quietly.

He wants to talk about how much he misses her, how much he wishes that things had gone differently, but all he can do is relish in the feeling of having her all to himself—even if only for a moment.

“Things’ve been really crazy lately,” Clarke agrees.

There’s a steady beat that pounds in her ribcage. _Home, home, home._

Home has Fox’s ridiculous giggle and Murphy’s sarcastic comments.

“I know,” Finn nods, but he doesn’t want to talk about what’s been going on at camp. He wants to talk about _them_ —the them that doesn’t exist, but lingers quietly in the corner of their minds and hearts. “But…I haven’t forgotten you— _us_.”

“Finn,” she says his name warningly.

“No, listen,” he touches her arm like Bellamy tends to do. But he’s not Bellamy. She notices the difference acutely, like a limb that had been chopped off, and someone’s attempting to replace. “ _I_ _love you, Clarke_. I know I messed up with Raven, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you—how you make me feel.”

Clarke sighs and tries to rub the tiredness off her face; it’s a bad habit she’s picked up from Bellamy. Then again, she’s seen him throwing moonshine on his hands whenever he goes to touch the random cut here and there, so she guesses she’s rubbed off on him too.

They’re like fire and grease—feeding off of each other, for better and for worse.

She wants to pull a Bellamy and simply be as direct as possible. She wants to just tell Finn that what he’s hoping for isn’t going to happen. But her heart, the one that gave her body to him so sweetly, pangs at hearing his declaration.

She remembers what it felt like those first days on the ground. To see Finn as a champion of light, and her knight in shining reckless armor. His fair skin under her fingertips. His lips upon hers, slanting and caressing hers.

These were things she’d cherished when they occurred, and directly after the fact. These were things that had tethered her.

But her mind remembers that _pull_ and _push_ that exists between Bellamy and her now. Her mind conjures images of his calloused hand on her arm. Her shoulder. Her neck.

Her mind remembers the words between the words—the ones that have gone unspoken between them, but matter.

The _don’t leave_ ’s and the _I’ll lose my mind without you_.

The in-between words aren’t about _that_ , but they could be. They could be if they’d close their eyes long enough. But they never do. Instead what’s left is:

_I love you._

_I know._

“Clarke,” Finn brings her back down to earth. Suddenly, it feels like the miles between her and home stretch too far, too steep, too long. But Finn doesn’t notice. He can’t. He wants her to only see him, only want him. This desire blinds him, and emboldens him. “ _I’m in love with you_.”

They can both hear what he’s not saying: _I want you to love me back_. But this isn’t a mutual exchange situation. It’s not a democracy.

“Finn,” Clarke stares at him with sad eyes. Sympathy and pity roll into one, and she’s not sure what she feels. But she knows it’s not love. Not the kind of love he wants from her, anyway. “Raven loves you.”

“I _can’t_ give up on you.”

“Don’t turn this into something it’s not. I care about you—”

“Is this about Bellamy?”

“What does Bellamy have anything to do with this?!”

“I don’t know! Everything!”

Maybe he’s right. Perhaps this does have everything to do with Bellamy. But not because she cares about Bellamy more.

No. Because she cares about Bellamy _different_.

It’s a truth that hangs in the air between them as they continue their walk towards home.

Home: where their people and their heart is.

She doesn’t know what else she can say, so she repeats, “Raven loves you—”

“I _want_ _you_!”

“It’s been _months_ , Finn!” Clarke finally explodes.

This rage at him has been building for a while. The hurt she felt when he had hugged and kissed Raven for the first time on the ground is etched into her mind as if it had been written on her brain in permanent marker. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it still bothers in that way that scars usually do.

“It’s been months,” she cools down, but she has to say this. She has to, or else she’ll never move past this. _They’ll_ never get past this, and they need to. They have to. “I was so hurt when I first found out about you and Raven—”

“I’m sorry! How many times do I need to apologize?” he pleads urgently, and it breaks a piece of her heart to see it.

“I don’t need apologies, Finn,” Clarke shakes her head gently. She tries to give him a small smile, but she might have grimaced instead. “But I don’t _need_ _you_ , either. Not like I did in the beginning. Not like _before_. We’re just—we’re not those people anymore. And whatever was between us isn’t the same. You know that it isn’t. And unless you’ve got the keys to a time machine, it can’t ever be the same again.”

“Because of Bellamy,” he whispers. He hears her, but he doesn’t want to. Not with this.

“Because of _us_ ,” she steps closer to him. They’re friends who used to be lovers, and they both have to learn to live with that. Yeah, maybe a little bit because of Bellamy, but mostly because of them. Because she and Bellamy aren’t about _that_ , not yet, and maybe not ever; she can’t make relationship decisions based off what could be one day with Bellamy Blake. “You lied, Finn. And I can see why you did it, but it doesn’t change how I felt afterwards. It doesn’t change how—how _degraded_ and _humiliated_ you made me feel. Because _everyone_ knew. Everyone knew that I was just a placeholder for Raven once she arrived…You made me look like a fool. You made me _feel_ like a fool. And now I can’t ever look at you the same way again, because when we first came down and connected, I would’ve never thought in a million years that _you’d_ be the one to do that to me.”

“So that’s it?” Finn says slightly frantic. “That’s the end of our story?”

“That’s the end of _that_ part of our story,” Clarke clarifies. She doesn’t want to alienate him. She just doesn’t want to go back to the status quo—the status quo before _knowing_ and _connecting_ to Bellamy. “We’re still friends, Finn. We’ll always be friends—we’re each other’s people. Nothing you do could ever break that.”

His shoulders droop. His eyes glaze over in disappointment. But he nods.

 _Raven loves him_ —he holds onto that as they continue to walk on home.

 

***

 

Clarke and Finn hear the shouting and argument in camp before they see the gate. The feeling of home washes over them with a crippling relief. Home, _finally_.

Before Clarke can think about it, her feet take her through the gates, stopping all words. Bellamy’s eyes are on her, frozen.

She sees herself in his eyes, and this immense urge to run and trap him within her arms, to let him feel how real she is, and how safe they both are, assault her. It crushes her. _Please_ , her eyes plead.

It’s just a moment, but Bellamy understands.

That’s all they need—one second to see, and grasp the soul of the other. That’s just who they are now. Who they are to each other.

Bellamy drops his weapon to the ground, and takes a step towards her. Clarke’s own legs continue to move forward towards.

_Almost there._

But Jasper reaches her first, his arms wrapping themselves solidly around her. Jasper’s _so happy_ that she’s okay, everyone around them is, that she lets a small smile shine through.

Bellamy doesn’t approach, giving her space. But she doesn’t want space. All she wanted was to make another normal moment with him, and so as soon as Jasper’s arms fall, she walks up to him with that infuriatingly purposeful stride that she has, and tips her head back to look into his eyes.

His arms twitch, they want to reach out—just to touch her for a second. It doesn’t have to be about _that_. It doesn’t. But _fuck_ , after the night he’d spent anxious with worry, he’s barely holding onto himself, and he doesn’t care if he lets it be about _that_.

Just once.

_Fuck, please._

Just once.

People curiously stand around, watching, waiting, _expecting_.

Her cerulean eyes dig into him, and his breath turns ragged. He’s got about a million things to say that are filled with bravado.

_Where’ve you been Princess? Taking a vacation from us commoners?_

_Well, look who decided to show up—there was about to be a mutiny, by the way._

_I hope we didn’t disturb your busy schedule, there’s just countless things to get done around here._

_What took you so long?_

Or he can go soft, and ask her things gently.

_Are you okay?_

_What happened?_

But the words won’t leave his tongue. Bellamy Blake, rebel leader, wordsmith galore, stands in front Clarke like a man filled with grace, and he’s speechless.

Clarke understands that there’s _too much_ consuming him. It’s trying to drown her too, because this is _anything_ but a normal moment. Then again, perhaps _this_ , whatever this is, is normal for them. On some level. In some part of themselves.

Finn stands transfixed, along with everyone else who’d come to greet Clarke, his hand brushing against Raven’s.

But Raven doesn’t notice the small movement, too entranced in watching genuine intimacy. _This_ is what hadn’t been with her and Finn, and what she longed for once she’d seen it the first time between Clarke and Bellamy.

Jealousy burns bright in her heart, so much so, that she has to look away. She finally notices Finn’s hands lightly touching hers, and she shivers. She wishes that Finn could still be enough.

But she’d already cried for him. She’d cried as Bellamy held her, and now she understood. She’s worth more. Even if she never truly believes it, her fearless leader does, and that’s enough.

It’s enough, and the envy curling through her veins snap and pop—gone. She looks back at the leaders of the Hundred, and watches as Clarke barely breathes, waiting for Bellamy to get it together.

 _You cry, I cry_.

His gentleness, his empathy, now engrained in her head forever, makes Raven turn to the others, and start to usher them away.

Miller and Murphy both understand, and start barking orders to finish this and that.

Octavia doesn’t move.

Neither does Finn.

 _Is that what’s been there all along_ , they wonder as they watch the stillness between the two tortured souls.

Clarke lifts her hand, and gingerly picks up one of Bellamy’s. She chastely kisses his hand, and it’s like the Earth starts to fall out of orbit.

Bellamy falls to his knees, moved beyond comprehension. So damned _grateful_ that she’s okay.

She’s here.

She exists.

He didn’t fail her.

Bellamy lets his head fall against her belly, eyes burning in relief, his arms hanging loosely at his side. He breathes her in, and he silently demands of her: _don’t ever leave._  

Clarke lets her fingers run through is hair, breathing in tandem with him. His hair slides against her skin like the worst and best agony ever to exist.

It’s a brutal silence that presses down on them like an anvil. Yeah, this moment _is_ about _that_ , and they deserve it—if only this one time. They deserve it and they’re not ashamed of it. Not here. Not now. _Not ever_.

“What now?” Bellamy whispers against her, his arm slowly climbing up her calves, thighs, to rest at her waist. It’s not sexual, but it is possessive. Because they belong to each other, on so many levels that there aren’t enough numbers and stars imagined to encompass all the ways.

“Something about peace, I think—I hope,” she smiles secretively.

“What the _hell_ does that even mean?” Bellamy huffs out a dry laugh. He hasn’t moved his face away from her body yet, and he doesn’t want to. _Just one more moment_.

“I’ll tell you,” Clarke scowls, her fingers loathe to stop their journey to his nape, “when you tell me what the hell is that?!”

Bellamy looks up at her, chin propped against her belly, so damn content for the first time in months, and followed her line of gaze.

“Oh, that,” Bellamy smirked deviously.

“Yeah,” Clarke raised an eyebrow. “ _That._ ”

“Tepees.”

“I can see that.”

Clarke scowls, and Bellamy’s smirk grows. He doesn’t move, and neither does she, though her glare tells him he’d be better off a thousand miles away from her wrath.

Clarke quickly launches into the new set of problems that comes with lodgings that require animal skin to insulate the inside ( _more hunting for more animal skin to cover the teepee as well as to make blankets to sleep in—did you even think this through?_ ).

Bellamy meets her point for point, playing the sport of verbal judo they’ve learned well.

Eventually, Jordan crashes into them, _literally_ — _dammit kid, are you blind_ , Bellamy yells while Clarke checks Jordan over with a steady hand and compassionate eyes.

Clarke and Bellamy break contact.

The passion that lingers underneath the surface goes into hiding. The moment of _could be_ dissipates, and they walk back to the makeshift med-bay where she starts to explain what had gone wrong.

The eyes of the Hundred watch them quietly, content in their own way, even though they’ll never understand.

That night, it doesn’t occur to Clarke that she got _exactly_ what she wanted: another normal moment with Bellamy, and her people.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? Liked it? Hated it? Let me know and Review! **Reviews are love**


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